


Come As You Are

by katyacore



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF, but. not rpf
Genre: Angst, F/F, FARM LESBIANS BABEY, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Like so much angst, Mild Gore, its the late 60s but this is rural wisconsin so they’re basically stuck in the fifties, new york freakin city gangs, you can pry parentheses out of my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-07-06 14:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katyacore/pseuds/katyacore
Summary: She watched with her unwavering eyes as Katherine keyed the ignition, leaving the car still and dark. Trixie couldn’t see inside the tinted windows. Soon, the door swung open, and a black laced boot caked in mud stepped out. Katherine hauled herself up out of the car, flashed a disgustingly perfect smile, and nodded towards Trixie.“G’morning, Miss Beatrice.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this first chapter is HELLA EXPOSITION but i really like worldbuilding so... this is basically an original story but the focus is on katya and trixie so don’t worry! also i’m on a stephen king binge rn so my writing is a knockoff of his i know just SAY IT.

_SUDBURY WAS A SMALL TOWN_ located almost square in the middle of the Wisconsin Valley, a settlement that was completely indistinguishable from the hundreds of other small farm towns in Wisconsin. The town, when Trixie was born, had only been a village with 150 people at most, but in the last nineteen years the population had grown to about 400. The effects were actually quite minimal; at first, locals feared it meant big businesses would strip away valuable farmland for name-brand outlets (or, God forbid, a mall), or that traffic would suddenly congest their dirt roads and clog up _more_ valuable farmland with fancy houses and apartment complexes. At that time, Sudbury only had a post office, a gas station, the sheriffs office, and a sort of “town square” where some stores were located, with the clear absence of big outlets or name brands. Of course, these concerns were only that; concerns. The only noticeable changes were a few more mom ‘n pop shops and some new faces. Kind, hardworking folk, just like them, looking for a new start or moving in with relatives or husbands. Sudbury Elementary built a brand new building, new farms arose, churches were erected, the High School became somewhat overcrowded, but that was all. Sudbury remained what it always was. 

Now, Trixie was sat cross-legged in the modern living room floor of some of these “new-folk,” despite the fact they had moved here in ‘57; ten whole years ago, all the way from Florida. The Liaison Family was small, at least in comparison to most families native to the area. There was Mrs. Liaison, a wispy woman in her thirties with platinum blonde hair that was always impeccable, and Mr. Liaison, an equally well-groomed man in his fifties that dealt with his dairy farm from afar. And they had their daughter, Pearl—their only daughter, which many found unusual for a farming family (rumors spread that Mr. Liaison was infertile. Kaput. But the family was, in reality, just perfectly content with their only daughter). She was like her mother in that she was glamorous and beautiful and blonde, and like her father in that she was distant, listless, and too honest for her own good. Pearl wasn’t afraid to tell anyone that their hair was matted or point out a snaggletooth, but it was always with a straight, neutral face. Trixie liked that a lot, because it was one of the only things about Pearl she could relate with. When they met at church, little nine-year-old Trixie had marched right up to her and asked, “Is your daddy Mr. Liaison?” When Pearl nodded, Trixie said, “My mama says you’re all new money.” Pearl had just laughed dryly and pointed a polished nail at Trixie, declaring, “I sure am glad, cause if old money looks like that, I don’t want it!” 

“Caught speeding!” Pearl brayed, slapping Trixie’s leg. 

“God damn,” Trixie muttered as she reluctantly picked up her silver piece (the boot, which Trixie insisted be hers every time she played Monopoly) and moved it to the “JAIL” section of the board, going out of her way to bump Pearl’s piece out of place. She picked at the pink bandaid on her left cheek—a tree-climbing related incident the day before.

“Did y’all know they used Monopoly to free war captives during World War 2?” The other girl sitting on the floor said as she collected money from the bank to redistribute later. Her name was Grace Rayburn, but the girls called her Dusty-Ray; a strange name for a strange girl. Unlike Pearl, she really was new, just barely arriving in Sudbury in June. Mr. and Mrs. Rayburn were even more outcasted than most newcomers to the town—not for a lack of friendliness from their neighbors, but because they were shut-in Evangelicals. “Bible-thumpers” from Kentucky, Trixie’s mama had told her once. Trixie pitied Dusty a lot. Dusty was only sixteen, so she couldn’t run off even if she wanted to. But she was pretty damn funny, purposefully or not, so she’d hang around with Trixie and Pearl when she wasn’t memorizing lines of the Good Book at home. 

“Bull,” Trixie spat. She folded her arms and stared grimly at her boot which was locked away with imaginary bars. 

“I mean it, they did!” Dusty hollered, her southern twang ringing in Trixie’s ear. “They’d sneak escape maps into the box, and have secret codes in the money, so that when they got wet you could see ‘em without guards knowing! And the pieces?” Dusty picked up the wheelbarrow and held it in front of Trixie. “Melted ‘em down into bullets. Ain’t that boss?” 

“Dusty-Ray, you moron,” Pearl rolled her eyes, picked up the unused thimble piece, and flicked it at Dusty. “They had wooden pieces during the war, they were too busy sending silver right to the army. Who the hell would be dumb enough to send it in Monopoly?”

A wide grin spread across Trixie’s face. “Dusty-Ray, that’s who,” she said dryly. Dusty and Pearl laughed, and Dusty even punched Trixie on the shoulder, which meant they were good friends. What Dusty lacked in general intelligence was more than made up for in good, genuine labor (or reciting the Bible in mismatched fragments due to her dyslexia, if that was important to you). She was stupidly tall and gangly, with bug-eyes made buggier by her horn rimmed glasses, but she could fix a truck or drive a plow. Trixie appreciated a girl who did dirty work. She could never stand how Pearl just watched idly as hired farmers worked her daddy’s cows. Once, Trixie had shaken her head gravely when Pearl said she thought cows were dirty and cried, “Jesus, I could kill you with jealousy over these cows and you don’t even want them?!” 

“Jeezum, we’re squares,” Dusty said as she crawled on her belly to get the dice that had rolled under the bright blue couch. She smiled softly. “Playing Monopoly, like a bunch of dumb kids.”

Pearl snorted. “Are you saying you don’t like Monopoly?” 

“Naw, but it’s silly, isn’t it?” Dusty blinked, now sitting back up and ignoring the lint on her dress, an extremely modest blue flannel that went almost to her ankles. “I mean, it ain’t like your parents are home, Pearl. We could have a party! Gosh, wouldn’t that be neat? A real party.” She trailed off, staring wistfully at a corner of the living room, maybe imagining party streamers and discarded beer cans, Leslie Gore’s Top Hits playing on Pearl’s turntable, couples kissing and swaying and anonymous. 

Pearl fetched a cigarette from her front blouse pocket and lit it. She let her pink lips curl around the filter and puffed demurely, like a Hollywood starlet. “You _are_ a kid, Dusty. Nothing wrong with a little Monopoly!” 

“Out of all of us here, I’d think you were the one dying to have a party,” Trixie finally commented. She was a girl of few words sometimes, and blabbed at a million miles a minute others. It depended on where you caught her and who you were. 

Pearl laughed without humor and took another drag. “Trix, everybody in this honky-tonk combined isn’t worth what a beer keg would cost,” she said dramatically, sighing and leaning back on her elbow. Trixie groaned and put her face in her hands. 

“You’re so—God! Just cause you come from Miami doesn’t mean you get to pretend you’re better than us!”

Pearl furrowed her eyebrows, puzzled. “But I _am!”_ Trixie screamed, which meant she was laughing, and stuck her left hand in the crook of her right elbow before raising it up at Pearl. Pearl mirrored the gesture, and they started laughing again. Dusty watched with eager fascination. 

Pearl stood up and snuffed her barely smoked cigarette in an ashtray, smirking at the two girls. “But I do have some wine,” she said coolly, but her eyes were brimming with excitement. “Fancy stuff.” 

“Oh, of course,” Trixie said with a sigh, but she was excited, too. Dusty was practically vibrating next to her, and they both watched Pearl glide into her large, neatly decorated kitchen towards the wine cabinet, her hips swaying slightly. Trixie watched them, then moved her eyes into her own lap. 

Dusty grabbed her hand and laced their fingers together in a tight squeeze, her long nails digging into Trixie’s skin. When she gasped, Trixie looked up again, and found that Pearl was now back in their midst, holding a wine bottle that could have been older than she was. It was covered in dust and obviously valuable, with lettering Trixie could not even begin to decipher on the label. 

“What is that, Japanese?” Dusty said as she cocked her head, asking the stupid questions for Trixie. 

Pearl hissed a laugh as she sat down, corkscrew in hand. “No, dimwit, it’s Russian.”

“What’s it say?”

“‘Wine’, I hope,” Pearl joked, already prying out the cork. 

“Won’t your parents ask about it? It looks expensive,” Trixie asked. 

“If they notice, I’ll just tell them _they_ drank it.” Pearl grinned smugly, rolling the cork idly between her fingers. “They got blackout wasted last night before leaving for the airport. I still can’t believe they’re going to Vegas without me!” 

As Pearl took a swig, Trixie nudged Dusty. “You gonna have some?” she teased. 

Dusty looked at her with a sort of anxious awe and nodded. “You bet. It’ll wear off before tonight, won’t it? I gotta be home before dark, and you know my folks.” She winced a little, and Trixie nodded understandingly. 

“If you just drink a little, you should be fine,” Trixie mused as the bottle was passed to her. It was only noon. Drinking at noon! Jesus. She had had alcohol before—beer gifted to her by reluctant teenage boys, mostly—but she despised the taste, and she always had to keep it a secret. Her mother wasn’t fond of alcohol at all. 

She braced herself for the bitter drink as she threw it back and still winced, quickly shoving it in Dusty’s hands and wiping her glossy lips. “Ugh! Horrible!”

Pearl grinned and grabbed Trixie by the face, squishing her cheeks. “Baby can’t take her drink?” she cooed. Trixie coughed like she was going to spit, and Pearl dropped her hand back to her side. 

Dusty-Ray was looking at them both hesitantly. “Does it really taste that bad?”

Pearl shrugged. “At first, sure. But the drunker you get, the better it tastes. Eventually, it’s like candy. Go on!” 

Trixie nodded, smiling, and Dusty sighed. “Aw, Lord, forgive me,” she muttered, finally bringing her lips to the rim. 

Pearl clapped the younger girl on the back. “Hey, how come? That’s His blood.” Dusty laughed and choked in the middle of her drink, red spittle flying from her lips as she hopelessly covered her mouth, and soon Trixie and Pearl were rolling on the floor, laughing so hard their stomachs hurt. 

—

It turned out that, to nobody’s surprise, Dusty was a lightweight. When Trixie and Pearl were buzzed at most, Dusty was hiccuping and leaning on Trixie and cradling the wine bottle in her thin fingers. She reminded Trixie of Dumbo, the little elephant in movie by the same name she had seen when she was a small girl at the theatre in Mirefield, a larger town near Sudbury that actually had a theatre. She could practically see the pink elephants marching around Dusty-Ray’s head, the sloshing, frothy beer and bubbles, the elephants banging drums and playing their trunks. _Look out! Look out! Pink elephants on parade!_

Maybe Trixie was seeing elephants, too, because she giggled at the idea and tugged on Dusty’s ear. “Dusty-Ray the Dumbo! That’s got a double meaning!”

Dusty didn’t respond with more than a short laugh, swaying a little in her spot. “Look at us, sittin’ in a circle and passin’ the bottle like a group of Injuns.” 

Trixie straightened a bit and huffed, taking a long drink from the bottle before turning on Dusty. “Hey, don’t say that,” she said dryly. 

Dusty looked puzzled, especially in her drunken state. “Huh? What? Injun?”

“Yah,” Trixie responded curtly. “I’m part Indian, don’t you know that? I’m Ojibwe.” 

Dusty-ray simply cocked her head and barked out a laugh. “You?! If you’re an Injun, I’ll eat my left shoe!” She laughed and slapped her knee, like she’d said a real good one-liner, but Trixie just sighed. Pearl bit her lip, and she wasn’t laughing, either. 

Pearl was one of the only people who knew, and somewhat understood, Trixie’s heritage. Her mother, Martha Firkus (Firkus was the name of her current husband, but before that she was Martha Mattel, and before that Trixie didn’t know. If her mother had ever had an ‘Indian name’, Trixie had no idea), was almost full-blooded Ojibwe, but at first glance you wouldn’t know it. Mexican, maybe, but she had done a good job assimilating into white midwestern culture at the (requests of her husbands and friends) years ago. Her shiny black hair was cut into a sleek bob which curled out at the ends, and she wore average dresses and aprons. She spoke fluent English, went to church, tended to her family and was always gentle. Everything she was ‘supposed’ to be. And still, it was not hard to see that she wasn’t an everyday white housewife once you knew her. Soon you would notice how dark her eyes were, how they nearly blended with her pupils and burned like coals in the sunshine. Her jaw was more square, her nose more prominent than one would have first thought. She pointed by pursing her lips, a trait that Trixie had adopted despite Martha’s best efforts. 

Trixie’s problem was the exact opposite. She had too much of her father in her. Her skin was pale turned pink in the sun, cheeks dotted with freckles. Her eyes were too blue and too bright (except one—one was somehow half brown. Trixie took Pearl’s inbred jokes about it in good stride). She had straw colored hair and stood at a staggering height of 5’9 that easily dwarfed her 5’3 mother. The Ojibwe flowing through her veins was almost completely overrun by her father’s Irish, or German, or whatever the fuck, thus Dusty-Ray’s ignorant disbelief. But it was there, if only barely. Once, another Native woman had stopped Trixie on the street while she was visiting relatives. 

“Pardon me, miss, but you’re Indian, aren’t you?” she had asked. 

Trixie, stunned by her boldness, confirmed. “A little.”

The woman huffed and nodded with satisfaction, gesturing to a white woman Trixie assumed was her friend. “She didn’t believe me, but I know one when I see one. Yuh.” She pointed a ring clad finger at Trixie’s face. “You have the nose, and when you clench your jaw together, you look just like an Indian, with white skin.” She nodded again, satisfied, and led her begrudged friend away, bidding Trixie goodbye. 

Culturally, Trixie was no more Ojibwe than she was Chinese, but she was defensive. What her mother had decided to share with her about their heritage, through blood or accident, she cherished, and she had seen her mother singled out or ragged on many times by their self-labeled “tolerant” neighbors. She defended something she didn’t understand or have real attachment to, for her mama’s sake.

Dusty-Ray’s laughs had suddenly turned to coughs, and she doubled over, clutching her stomach and letting the wine bottle slip out of her sweaty hands. Pearl narrowly caught it, and Trixie started rubbing Dusty’s back. “Hey, take it easy.”

“I think I’m gonna… I think I’m guh-gonna be sick,” Dusty whispered hoarsely. She had suddenly gone pale, and her corkscrew curly brown hair was sticking to her forehead with sweat. Trixie and Pearl shared a quick look before Trixie lugged Dusty up by her armpits and hurriedly led her to the bathroom, throwing open the door and forcing Dusty to her knees. They were just in time. As soon as Dusty’s knees touched the hard tile, she was vomiting profusely inside the bowl. Trixie winced and quickly gathered Dusty’s hair in her fist, holding it away from her face and turning her own away from the scene. The fluorescent lights above burned through her eyelids. The smell of grapey vomit hit Trixie’s nostrils and she gagged. She used her free hand to cover her mouth with the collar of her shirt. 

“Oh, shit,” Pearl hissed, scurrying away to what Trixie presumed was the kitchen. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Trixie cooed, stroking Dusty-ray’s hair as the young girl retched. She felt guilty. She should have cut her off, or maybe discouraged her from drinking altogether. If this was happening to one of her baby sisters, she’d surely kill someone. 

Dusty lifted her head long enough for Trixie to wipe her mouth with a handkerchief, trying not to look into her drunken and teary eyes. Pearl got her a damp cloth and, after vomiting again, Dusty simply leaned against the toilet while Trixie patted her face and neck. 

“I’m suh-orry,” Dusty whimpered. “I’m soo sorry!”

“Sorry?” Pearl said, a small smile on her lips as she handed Dusty a glass of seltzer water. “What for? You didn’t barf on my carpet or spill the wine, so you’re just dandy in my book.” 

Trixie paused to let Dusty get a sip of the water and warned her to go easy, so it wouldn’t disrupt her stomach. Pearl sighed and tapped her foot, grabbing a lock of her platinum hair and gnawing on it. “We gotta get you home,” she murmured. 

“No!”

“Yes,” Trixie said sternly, like she was arguing with a little kid. “Your parents aren’t gonna know you were drunk. You don’t smell like wine, just…”

“Puke,” Pearl finished. 

“Yeah. We’ll tell ‘em you got sick, okay? And if they somehow _do_ find out, we’ll take the heat.”

Dusty’s lower lip wobbled and she sighed. “You swear?”

Trixie locked her pinky with Dusty’s and smiled. “On my mother’s name.” 

—

“You remember those games we played when we were kids?” Pearl asked as her and Trixie meandered along the dirt road that led to Trixie’s house. They had just finished dropping off a very drunk and very sick Dusty-Ray (who had vomited twice on the painstaking walk there), but her parents didn’t suspect a thing. They embraced their daughter with insane worry on their faces and thanked the two girls profusely for “taking such good care of her.” Trixie had just smiled awkwardly; she felt terrible. Dusty was a good kid. They didn’t mean to make her sick, but they should have known she’d try too hard to impress them. Trixie decided she would make it up to Dusty somehow.

“Sure, what about them?”

“They were just funny,” Pearl laughed. “Cat and mouse, where the whole baseball diamond was the mouse hole.” 

“Those games got huge. The whole neighborhood would play.”

“Yeah! And we always played pirates, too. We’d dig up your mama’s poor garden—“

Trixie snorted, grabbing Pearl’s arm. “Oh, Jesus, yeah! She’s never laid a hand on me, but that day, by God, she got close. I was sure she was gonna hide me and wear me like a coat.” Both girls laughed, shaking their heads and sighing. After a brief silence, Pearl spoke up again.

“What about house?” She murmured. Trixie froze up a bit, but she hoped Pearl didn’t notice. She walked a little more briskly.

“What about house?” _(Look out! Look out! Pink elephants on parade!)_

Pearl bit her lip. “Well, it was… interesting, huh?” She laughed weakly, but Trixie started obsessively smoothing her pink gingham dress. 

“You were the mom and I was the dad,” Trixie finally said quietly. 

“Uh-huh. We played in that shack by your house that used to be the farmhand’s. And we had a baby doll that we dressed, and you went off to work. And every time you walked back in our little house, you said, ‘Honey, I’m home!’” They both laughed at that, and the tension eased a bit, but soon uneasy silence returned. 

“And, I don’t even know if you remember, but we would…” Pearl visibly swallowed as Trixie turned to look at her. Her jaw was set, and she looked like her unwavering Ojibwe mother, but inside she was trembling. 

“Kiss,” Trixie blurted in a hushed voice. It was true. After the ‘coming home’ ritual, Trixie would often put her pudgy hands on Pearl’s waist and kiss her flat on the lips for a few seconds. Once, Trixie had even suggested they touch tongues, and they had awkwardly stuck their tongues out from clamped lips and touched them together for less than a second before recoiling exaggeratedly and squealing. It was all kid stuff, just playing, but it raised suspicions. It had in Trixie, anyway, after her mother caught them sharing a brief kiss and pleaded for her to never do it again. Trixie still remembered that clearly. There had been the little doll on a chair and the dim light bulb was bouncing light off Pearl’s shiny hair. Her mother had eclipsed the light as she stood above them. The interaction worried Trixie intensely. 

Apparently, the same worry weighed on Pearl. “That was pretty dumb, huh?” she said, and then seemed to wince at herself. Trixie laughed curtly and let go of Pearl’s arm. 

“Yeah. Really stupid kid stuff,” she mumbled. She was looking down at her now clasped hands as they walked slowly down the road, two tipsy blonde girls stumbling down the road. 

_(Chase ‘em away! Chase ‘em away! I’m afraid I need your aid. Pink elephants on parade!)_

Trixie was waiting for Pearl to push the conversation, to ask if Trixie was a lesbian, to exclaim that she thought it was gross, but she didn’t. They walked the rest of the way in silence. Pearl seemed contemplative, but Trixie was just cold. She didn’t have feelings for Pearl, now or then, but she admitted those kinds of kisses were the only ones she thought were worth anything. Kisses on girls. Pearl was boy crazy, sincerely so, so Trixie doubted she was questioning herself. It seemed like a weak attempt to get Trixie to spill something, but Trixie kept her jaw locked. She had never cared for relationships then, and she didn’t now. It didn’t matter. She had a farm and siblings to take care of. 

After the longest walk of her life, Trixie finally saw her house in the distance. It wasn’t as beautiful and big as Pearl’s, but it was nice. A modest two story with six bedrooms, a bathroom, and an outhouse. Her mama and step-dad built it with their bare hands when Trixie was only a few years old. Trixie didn’t remember much about her first house, except that it was small and held a lot of bad memories for her mother. She waved Pearl goodbye, thanked her sincerely for walking her home, and skipped up the wood steps to the door. When she opened it, she nearly swung it right into her seven year old stepsister, Peggy. 

“Trissy!” she cried, jumping up and hugging her older sister. “Trissy” was Trixie’s nickname, since her siblings couldn’t pronounce Trixie when they were toddlers, and the name stuck. 

“Hi, Peg,” she said, smoothing her sister’s hair. “How was school?” 

“Good!” Peggy exclaimed. “Can you play with me and Ruth? Please?” 

Trixie continued moving to the kitchen. She stepped over a Raggedy Ann and one of Michael’s BB guns in order to make it to the kitchen. Dirty pots and pans lined the sink, and she sighed with the knowledge she would clean them. She ducked under the teacups that hung from hooks above the counter, opening up the fridge and humming. “Whaddaya wanna play?”

Peggy bounced from foot to foot. “Dolls!” Trixie groaned, and Peggy continued, “Oh, come on, you’re the best at Dolls! Ruth always makes them be friends. It’s fun when you make them fight each other!”

“Hush,” Trixie hissed. She pulled a bottle of milk from the fridge and a glass from the cabinet. “That was one time. I can’t play today, I’m on chore duty.”

Peggy groaned, snatching Trixie’s milk cup and taking a sip from it. “Make Mike do it!”

Trixie laughed and yanked on one of Peggy’s brunette plaits playfully. “I wish,” she lamented. “But he took over last time. Next time we’ll play, okay?” Peggy groaned again and scowled. She knew she wouldn’t be able to argue with her mother about it, and so she resigned herself to defeat, took another sip of Trixie’s milk, and scampered back to her room. 

“Trixie? You home, honey?”

“Yeah, mama,” Trixie called, sobering up as best she could. Her mother came through the hall from the basement, a laundry basket perched on her hip (they had finally gotten a dryer, after years of using their clothesline out back). 

“How was Pearl’s?” 

“Good. Dusty-ray got sick, though.”

Mrs. Firkus frowned. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. I think I’m gonna make her muffins once she’s better.”

“That’s a good idea,” Martha agreed. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and sighed. “Can you sort this laundry for me? I’d do it myself, but I’m expecting a phone call.”

“Sure.” Trixie took the laundry basket and placed it on her own hip. Her mom kissed Trixie’s forehead and thanked her before scurrying to her husband’s office. As Trixie was folding the clothes and separating them, she pondered who the phone call was from, or what it would be about, but she wasn’t awfully bothered. She assumed it was business; boring stuff. Lately, the farm had finally started to rake in a sufficient profit. They specialized in corn, with lush fields of it lining their property, but they also grew cranberries and—Trixie’s favorite—black walnuts. The walnut orchard was way back towards the end of their property, sat right on the edge of the vast forest that stretched for miles, way into Northeast Wisconsin. One of Trixie’s favorite chores was going down there and tending to the trees. Her mother even let her use a chainsaw to cut off rotting branches or clear more little trees to expand the orchard, and Trixie had to admit, she never felt better than with that chainsaw in her hands and munching walnuts alone under the sun. 

“Yes—Oh, uh-huh,” Mrs. Firkus hummed from a few rooms away. She sounded excited. “Oh? Oh, no, that’s perfect! Yes, yes of course. Well, I’m eager to meet you as well. Yes!” she laughed and snorted. “You’re funny! I’ll see you tomorrow, Katherine. Buh-Bye.” 

Trixie had gotten up and was now leaning against the doorway. “Who was that?” she asked. She smiled crookedly. “I’ve haven’t seen you that excited since Peggy’s first words.” 

Trixie’s mom grinned, scoffing. “Oh, I was being _polite_ , Beatrice,” she said. “But I am excited. We’re getting a new farmhand!”

Trixie raised an eyebrow. “A farmhand? Or a _farmhand_ farmhand?” 

“ _Farmhand farmhand_ ,” her mother answered as she began filing the papers on her husband’s cluttered desk. Pictures of their family sat on a shelf, all missing one key member. “She’s gonna live in the quarters at the side of the house.”

Trixie gasped, grabbing onto her mama’s shoulder. “Mama! That’s great news! We haven’t had a real farmhand around here since Kenny!” Kenny was just an older, work-roughened man who had worked on the farm when Trixie was younger and retired when she was ten. The living quarters had remained virtually untouched for the past nine years, except to store old farm equipment

_(or to play house. Honey, I’m home!)._

“That means you don’t have to do your regular chores today, _but_ ,” her mother added quickly. “You’re in charge of getting that shack into order. Take the farm equipment to the barn for now. There’s the mattress in the guest bedroom we can put in there—the bedspring is still around somewhere. Ask Mikey and your stepfather to help you with that. The rest is up to you.” Trixie beamed, and her mother cupped her cheek lovingly. 

Trixie realized then that her mom was in even more of a good mood than she thought, to treat her so tenderly. “Can you do that, hon?”

Trixie nodded eagerly. The prospect of decorating this farmhand’s space excited her—it was like Dolls, but in real life. She knew nineteen was far too old to be so excited about such a childish idea, but she was. She was normally disinterested in most things, or mildly attentive at best, so being this genuinely excited was a real treat for her. She had completely forgotten the conversation with Pearl. 

“What’s she like, the farmhand?” Trixie asked. She wrung her hands slowly. 

“I don’t know. Her name is Katherine, she’s 23, and she’s moving here from New York. That’s all I know.”

Trixie’s eyes boggled. “New York?! Who just decides to up and leave New York for Sudbury?” 

Her mother shrugged, patting Trixie’s shoulder. “Like I said, I don’t know! But apparently she’s good. She’ll be here tomorrow, bright and early, and you need to show her around. Get her acquainted. Can you do that, too?”

Trixie nodded for the millionth time. She was already backing out of the room. “Yes, ma’am. She’ll be learning from the best.”

“You better not be a show-off!” her mom teased. Then, she scrunched up her nose. “Trixie, Do you smell wine?” 

Trixie shook her head and shrugged. “Nup. Not a thing.”


	2. New Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second chapter immediately cause i know y’all wanna see katya! well here she is! the next chapter is done but i’m not sure when i’ll post it. it depends on demand! bye!

_THE NEXT DAY, TRIXIE WAS UP_ bright and early. Early for her, even—at 5:30 instead of 6:00. She rubbed her sleepy eyes, remembered that the farmhand would be arriving that morning, and soon swung out of her bed, which was covered in pillows and frothy white sheets. She slid her feet into her moccasin slippers and touched one of the curlers in her hair that she had left overnight, contemplative. She could see herself in her vanity mirror across the room, where a small lamp and many bottles of perfume, tubes of lipstick, curlers, and ceramic animals sat. She yawned and shuffled across her carpet to the bathroom to begin her morning ritual. After peeing, she washed her face and carefully stuck a new pink bandage on her wound from a few days prior. She frowned at the ridiculous addition to her face, but the cut looked much worse, so she resignedly began her makeup over it. 

Trixie’s makeup was a very strange and personal thing. She didn’t wear it always, especially when she knew she would be doing hard work, or just didn’t quite feel like it, but most of the time she liked to. She wasn’t exactly trying to catch anybody’s attention—in fact, it made her catch the _wrong_ attention. 

Trixie was, bluntly, not very good at makeup. She saw maybe three people in town who wore it consistently, and she only started doing it a year or so ago. She had begged for it for Christmas, and her whole family had gotten her plenty of product. Trixie was still mostly using that product. 

She slathered on her foundation with her hands, pressing it over her face and smearing the excess down her neck. Then, she powdered her face like she was angry at it. She would take her worryingly sparse pan of blush and brush through it, picking up too much and not tapping off any excess. She had no example to go off of for any of this, except the photos in magazines and Dolly Parton record covers. Her cheeks were always a bright pink, nearly down to the corner of her mouth. Her lips were naturally full, but she had swiped pink lipstick or lip gloss crookedly over the lines many times. She used her fingers to wipe glittery eyeshadow on her eyelids all the way up to her eyebrows and drew her eyeliner too thick from messing it up over and over. Her eyelashes were long and full and clumped together with mascara. She drew in her eyebrows too long or too thick. 

Trixie was lucky she was nineteen and graduated from High School; had the girls at her school snickered at her, she would have surely given up before she ever had gotten started. Girls still did snicker, and so did boys, but she wasn’t as insecure as she was back then. Her mama said she looked like a whore sometimes, but Trixie just laughed and replied, “Mama, even whores have nicer makeup.” Trixie had sort of embraced her style, and it was one of her favorite things about herself. She perfected her imperfections. 

But now, as she swiped her eyeliner over her lid, she was having doubts. Trixie was not exactly popular in town; she wasn’t actively disliked, or bullied, but she was far from someone like Pearl’s status. People respected her family greatly, especially after what they had gone through, but there was a general uneasiness towards Trixie. It wasn’t always noticeable, their awkwardness or waves of disgust, but it was there. Trixie’s makeup was something to giggle about. Sure. But that wasn’t it. Not completely. With her naturally solitary nature and lack of enthusiasm for most things, she was horribly hard to read. She looked at everyone with the same blank stare most of the time, and you didn’t know if she hated or adored you. She was somewhat of an enigma to the locals that weren’t her friends; a freakishly tall half Indian girl that wore the same pink gingham dresses or overalls every day, covered in scrapes, looking with blue and brown eyes that saw through you, curly blonde hair sometimes tucked into the collar of her dress, with a bandana for good measure. Not to mention her chainsaw. Jesus, what kind of girl cut down trees with a chainsaw for fun? 

Trixie sighed and finally started to unroll the curlers in her hair. If she was going to be living and working with a new farmhand, Katherine would have to get used to it. But Trixie was determined to at least start out with a fairly normal impression. Her eyeliner was a little thinner that day. 

The sun was barely visible over the flat Wisconsin earth. The sky was still gray, and stars were blinking faintly above Trixie as she strolled outside. She wore a clean pair of overalls, both straps loosely jingling at her sides, and a rosey button up with short sleeves rolled further up her biceps, exposing her farmer’s tan. She bent down to cuff her pant legs and caught a glimpse of her boots, which were once a pristine white, and now were yellowed and dirty. Her stepfather had snapped at her for wasting money on something that would get filthy right away, but Trixie couldn’t help herself. The cactus etchings along the side and glamorous pointed toe were too much to resist. They were almost her exclusive footwear. Trixie stood back up, cracked her knuckles idly, and continued along towards the barn. 

The barn wasn’t very big; just a simple wooden building with a small loft for hay, a pen that connected to it for the chickens and pigs, and a few stalls. Inside the stalls were a young stallion named Zoomer (an appaloosa that belonged to Trixie’s fifteen year old stepbrother, Michael), a female horse named Barbie (a palomino that belonged technically to Trixie, but was more often ridden by her thirteen year old stepsister, Margaret), and a nice heifer simply named Brenda. All of the Firkus livestock was for personal use, either as pets or for extra milk and pork for holiday meals. Trixie sometimes wished they were a livestock farm, so she could have more of the animals that she loved so dearly, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to stomach them getting slaughtered. So, she was perfectly content with her own little paradise. 

“Birdie!” Trixie called. She whistled a series of yips and soon a big, shaggy dog was loping up towards her from around the barn. She barked, spun in a circle, and pushed herself up against Trixie. Her head was nearly up to the top of Trixie’s thighs, that’s how big of a dog she was. But Trixie was convinced she was the sweetest one in the world. When she was thirteen she had picked her out from a litter a neighbor’s dog had, and Trixie had no trouble admitting Birdie may have been her best friend. Birdie was a mutt, with obvious hints of some kind of shepherd, but most people just said she was part bear. 

“Hi, Birdie-Bird!” Trixie squealed as she rubbed the dog’s back vigorously. “I’m early, I know.” Usually, Birdie was right on schedule with Trixie, trotting out to meet her at the same time every morning. “But we have a new farmhand! Isn’t that exciting? She’s gonna be here any minute, and we gotta show her around. You gonna be good?”

Birdie panted and licked Trixie’s palm. “Good girl. I knew you would.” Trixie patted at the base of her tail before beginning her brisk walk towards the living quarters Katherine would be staying in. _What a nut you are,_ she thought. _Talking to a dog like she’s a person. Huh!_

Trixie swung open the door and crept inside. It was exactly how she left it yesterday, late into the evening when she was finally satisfied with her work. After the men in her family helped take out the equipment and bring in the mattress, Trixie had rushed inside the house to scour for dressings. She searched her own closet, the linen closet, the basement, and even the barn. In the end, her search procured a pink flower vase she filled with wildflowers, two down feather pillows, rose-patterned bedsheets, a Claude Monet painting printed on glossy paper in a weathered frame, a horse-themed calendar, and a goat skull that Michael had claimed when he was twelve. She quickly, yet caringly had set up the room, taking care in cleaning every dusty surface until it shined. 

She still needed a comforter and a lamp, since the dim light bulb above didn’t give off nearly enough light and she doubted changing it would solve the problem. Unfortunately, she knew exactly where to find these things. She crept up the stairs towards the guest room, and sighed deeply as she entered. The room itself wasn’t at all threatening or even unnerving—it was a simple bedroom with a (now missing) mattress, a chestnut dresser, and a bedside table of the same wood. It didn’t bother her. What _did_ was the huge walk-in closet and what it contained. She crossed the floor in shambling steps and tried to gather her courage. There wasn’t any bogeyman to be afraid of. She wasn’t no baby. 

_(you replaced her, didn’t you?)_

She wiped her hands on her dress and took a deep breath, eyes closed. It was Cherry’s closet. Her older sister Cherry. Everybody in town knew what happened to her, but the topic was practically forbidden in Trixie’s family. Thus, it was forbidden in her mind. She pushed the thoughts away and wrapped her hand around the handle. She said a prayer

_(oh lord that’s cherry oh jesus oh god)_

and slammed open the door. Nothing. No bogeyman, and definitely no Cherry. Trixie had knuckled her cheeks and pressed her forehead against the closet door, muttering “baby, baby, you fucking baby,” to herself. Then she straightened up, gathered up Cherry’s old red comforter and wine colored lamp shade (red was her favorite color) before slamming the door and marching downstairs. The comforter and lamp lay where she had numbly set them. 

Birdie’s ears suddenly perked up. She barked and took off running outside, down the long dirt driveway, and Trixie knew that meant Katherine was close. Trixie quickly left the quarters, closed the door, and started after her dog, who was a yapping black ball of fur in the distance. But, sure enough, Trixie could see dust being kicked up as the car rolled towards the house. 

Soon the car was close enough to recognize—a black Lincoln of some kind—and Trixie began waving. Katherine flashed her headlights to signal she saw Trixie and slowly crept towards the driveway, the car still kicking up dust and bouncing over rocks and sinking into the soft dirt. Birdie was running in crazy circles around the vehicle, barking and foaming. Trixie worried that she was making Katherine nervous, so she whistled for Birdie and called her name more sternly. Birdie galloped over to Trixie, who quickly grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and held her in place. 

She watched with her unwavering eyes as Katherine keyed the ignition, leaving the car still and dark. Trixie couldn’t see inside the tinted windows. Soon, the door swung open, and a black laced boot caked in mud stepped out. Katherine hauled herself up out of the car, flashed a disgustingly perfect smile, and nodded towards Trixie. 

“G’morning, Miss Beatrice.”

Trixie’s grip tightened on Birdie’s fur, but Birdie was completely still, perhaps sensing her awe. Katherine was a thin, muscular woman wearing a pair of plain dark blue jeans (aside from a rip in the knee), tapering down towards her calf since she pegged them. A black button up with white embroidered patterns near the shoulders and down her back was tucked into her slacks, the long sleeves rolled up and cuffed at her elbows. The buttons were buttoned all the way up to her neck, giving even more emphasis to the woman’s chiseled face and high cheekbones. Her dirty blonde hair stood a good inch off the top of her head, cascading down past her shoulders in insane waves. She looked modestly at Trixie with steely eyes, intrigued yet gentle, and Trixie took a moment to find her words. 

“Good morning. Katherine, right?” 

“Yes ma’am. But _you_ can call me Katya.” She extended her rough hand with chipped red fingernail polish coating her nails towards Trixie’s free one and shook it firmly, winking. Trixie did not register in time, and thus her arm simply bobbed up and down uselessly before falling back at her side. 

“Katya?” she asked quietly. “That’s pretty. I’ve never heard a name like that before. What is it?”

Katya chuckled lightly, leaning back on her heels and sticking a hand in her pocket. “It’s Russian,” she explained gently. “A nickname. And you’re Miss Beatrice, yeah?”

“Just Trixie,” Trixie replied. “Did my ma—my mom tell you to call me that? Oh, gosh, where is my mom? She needs to meet you! Oh, excuse me, how rude, let me—“

“No, no, she and your old man are out,” Katya explained coolly, shaking her head. “She told me about you, that you’d be showin’ me around. But she didn’t tell me how pretty you’d be!” She fanned herself with her hand, blowing out exaggeratedly and making Trixie giggle. 

“Oh, hush,” was all she said. She dug the toe of her boot into the soft dirt and decided to change the subject. “This here’s my dog, Birdie. She’d never hurt a fly, so don’t pay her any mind.” Trixie finally let go of Birdie’s fur and started to massage her cramping hand. Birdie trotted up to Katya and gnashed her teeth excitedly. Katya knelt down and started to scratch behind Birdie’s ear, making kissing noises. 

“You’re a big girl, ain’t’cha? Whew! Big as a bear, yessir. But you’re a sweet girl!” Birdie licked Katya’s chin and made her laugh. Trixie quietly walked around to the back of the car (which was a genuine beauty. Trixie couldn’t believe someone would bring a car like that all the way out there) and tried to open the trunk. Katya caught a glimpse of her and sprung to her feet, nudging Trixie away gently. “No, no, I can do it. I’m the one working for you, Miss Trixie!” 

She popped the trunk and bent down to grab her suitcases. Her shirt had become slightly untucked, and Trixie saw the stretch of tan skin that was now visible as she bent over. Her broad shoulders rose with her breath, and the shadows of Katya’s spine made crescent moons on her skin. Then, she was standing back up and gripping two beaten leather suitcases by her sides. She grinned at Trixie. “Not so pretty, but they do the job. Hey, could you get the carrier in the backseat and open it?”

“Sure!” Trixie was eager to help, and quickly opened the backseat. It smelled of cigarettes. She grabbed the carrier, which had a significant weight to it, and unlatched the gate without thinking. A streak of black shot out of the opening and Trixie shrieked, dropping the carrier with a clatter. What she, at first, thought was a rat, was actually a black cat that now tramped up to Katya and rubbed against her legs. 

“Bastard!” Katya hissed, dropping her suitcases with a thud and picking up the feline by the scruff of the neck. “Don’t scare your new mama like that! Say hello!” The cat opened its jaws in a yawn, revealing its ridiculously long fangs, and yowled horribly like it was caught in a trap. Trixie blinked. 

“I don’t mean to be rude, Katya, but that’s the scariest cat I’ve ever seen in my life.” Katya howled with laughter and dropped the cat to the ground, who landed nimbly on its feet and began to peruse the property. Birdie felt similarly about the animal and stayed planted right at Trixie’s leg. 

“I know! He’s one ugly bastard, ain’t he?” Katya was looking with pride at the cat who now pawed at some weeds lazily. “I picked him up at the last place I worked. Started feeding him, and now he follows me around. I couldn’t leave him!”

“Is that his name?” Trixie asked. “ _Bastard?”_

Katya laughed again and shook her head. “No! It’s technically Mitya, but he’s such a bastard I call him that all the time. Son of a bitch.” She picked up her suitcases again. “Care to show me to my place, Miss?”

Trixie nodded and twisted a piece of hair around her finger, letting it bounce back up into its loose curl when she released it as she led Katya to her quarters. She hoped Katya was none the wiser that she was just inside, obsessively perfecting it. She opened the door and stood to the side, chewing her lip as Katya stepped inside and set down the suitcases. 

“Holy hell, for _me?_ ” Katya breathed. Trixie smiled and danced in place a little. 

“Do you like it? I’m sorry there’s so much red and pink, it’s all we had, and I didn’t know your favorite color—“

“I love it, Miss Trixie,” Katya said, smoothing her hand over the red comforter on her bed. “Oh, I just love it. Red is my favorite color! I can’t believe you did all this for me!” 

Trixie shrugged. “You’re gonna be living here, I wanted to make it nice. You can change it, though. I didn’t decorate too much, so you could make it all yours.” 

Katya sauntered around the small space and glanced at the skull mounted above her bed. 

“Is this a cow skull?”

“Goat.”

“Ah, even better.” 

Trixie didn’t think to ask if it was weird. She suddenly clapped her hands together and smiled unnaturally wide. “Well! I’ll let you get settled in, and then I’ll tour you around. If you need me, just come on inside. Door’s always unlocked.” 

Trixie turned around and began briskly out of the quarters. “Oh!” she cried, stopping herself on the door frame and spinning around. “How do you like your eggs?”

Katya looked up from the painting she was examining. “Huh?”

“Your eggs,” Trixie repeated, as if Katya said something stupid. 

Katya raised her eyebrows and then grinned. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Sunny side up.”

“Hey, me too.” Katya winked and Trixie began towards the house, trying not to burst into a giddy run. 

—

“So youw fwom New Yowk Shity?” Peggy asked around a mouthful of egg. 

“Peg, finish chewing,” Trixie said, but Katya was laughing. 

“Yes ma’am, born and raised. Well, not really. I was born in Boston, but New York is my real home.” She took a sip of orange juice and tapped her thigh restlessly. 

“What’s it like?” Margaret asked. She had finally been woken from her drowsiness at this news. “They got big buildings everywhere? Lights? I heard they have movie theatres the size of baseball stadiums!” 

Katya barked a laugh, slapping the homemade wooden table lightly and leaning back. “Not like baseball stadiums, no way! But it is big. Crowded. You can’t walk down a single street without bumping shoulders with people. The buildings go right up into the clouds!” Margaret was staring at Katya with awe, but Michael snorted. 

“Sounds awful,” he mused. “I heard you can’t even see the stars, there’s so much smoke from cars up in the air.”

Katya just shrugged. “You can see ‘em, just not as good. It really isn’t bad. I love it! If you’d grown up there, you’d understand.”

“If you liked it so much, what made you decide to be a farmhand?” Ruth looked skeptically at Katya, and the other children nodded in agreement. Ruth was awfully smart, and her siblings respected it. 

Katya smiled, but Trixie saw her fingers start tapping more restlessly on her thigh. She cleared her throat. “Needed a change of pace,” she answered finally. “City life—it’s just too much sometimes, y’know?” She picked at a scab on her elbow. 

“So I’ve been working as a farmhand for about a year now. Worked in Ohio, Indiana, Illinois—that’s where I met your mama’s friend, Bob.”

“Hey! We know Bob!” Peggy cried, kneeling up in her chair. Trixie scolded her to sit normally and quiet down. “He lives down on Myers road!”

Katya nodded. “Yuh. He’s got a wheat farm in Illinois. Only started a few years ago, but it’s gettin’ big! His name—well, it carries him pretty good.” It was true—Bob was one of the most successful and lively farmers in Sudbury. His crops and livestock brought in millions every year, and there was never a bad harvest on that man’s property. The poorer ones in Sudbury despised him for it, not only because he was rich and could buy their entire farms in cash if he wanted to, but naturally because he was a successful black man. Similarly to Trixie’s mother, their “tolerance” only extended so far. But those people were actually in the minority—Bob was generally well liked, or folks at least pretended to like him. Nobody dared sabotage Bob’s business or voice their contempt to his face. “It’s ‘cause I can afford a lawyer, and those sonuvabitches can’t!” Bob would cry with a wheezing laugh. What a wonder, Trixie always thought—a man as hardworking as him still managed to have a sense of humor (but no sense of style, Trixie’s stepfather had often teased. “If he’s a rich man, he better start dressing like one!)

“He used to live in New York, you know that?” Katya grinned at the children’s gasps and _no way_ s, taking a bite of her toast. “So I asked if I could work on his farm in Ohio awhile. He comes in every now and then, mostly during the planting. But his friend Brianna runs the joint when he’s gone.”

“How’s she?” Trixie asked timidly. She was suddenly nervous at the mention of another girl. 

Katya smiled. There were some crumbs stuck to her red lipstick that she licked off. “A huge bitch.”  
Trixie screamed with laughter, but Katya suddenly covered her mouth. “The kids! Aw, shit—oh no! I gotta stop fuckin’—son of a bitch!” The kids all howled. Peggy was banging her fist on the table, sending her milk sloshing over the edge of her cup. Ruth was rolling on the floor. Margaret and Michael were blushing and hiding their giggles in their arms. 

Katya had both hands clasped around her mouth. “I’m not gonna say a thing more!” she cried over the laughter. “Your mama’s gonna fire me!” She finally released her hands and pouted, her eyebrows slanted as she looked apologetically at Trixie, and then at the kids. “Oh, I really am sorry. Sincerely. You little pitchers have got big ears, yadda yadda yadda. You won’t tell on me, willya?”

“No!” the siblings said together. Even Michael, who had at first lamented a female farmhand (“Who’s supposed to take me hunting? Not her, I bet!”) was shaking his head.

“Snitches get stitch-ees!” Peggy sang, which sent the table into more gales of laughter. As Trixie demanded Peggy tell her where she heard that, Katya stood up and pushed her chair in. 

“If you’ll excuse me, your big sister and I have got some work to do,” she announced. Trixie wiped a tear from her eye and nodded, stifling her giggles. 

“Miss Katherine is right. Michael, you’re in charge. And Margaret is also kind of in charge, just not of Michael.” When she was finished outlining their necessary duties and chores (which was a long winded speech that had Peggy dangerously close to laying in her puddle of milk) she went to grab her plate and found that Katya had already taken it and the others to the sink, and was now washing them. Trixie’s mouth dropped open comically, and her siblings giggled as they hightailed it out of the kitchen to get ready for school. 

Katya hummed softly, swaying in place, her strong hands coated in suds. Trixie padded up behind her and attempted to nudge Katya away. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she murmured, gently wrapping her hand around Katya’s boney wrist. “I can do it just fine.”

“I believe it,” Katya agreed, softly pulling away from Trixie and starting to rinse a glass. “But let me. You cooked all this for us, it’s the least I can do! I haven’t had a warm, homemade meal like that since…” She paused, frowning with concentration and staring out the window in front of her. The sun had breached over the cornfields. “Well, I don’t think I ever have.” 

A wave of pity washed over Trixie, and she rubbed Katya’s back in small circles. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re here, then, huh?” Her voice was maybe the softest and kindest it’d ever been. She dragged her palm up Katya’s spine and then patted her shoulder. “You’ll be getting nice meals like that every day, either from me or my mama.”

Trixie’s glassy eyes flickered down to Katya’s hands. She was methodically scrubbing a clean plate in jerky circles. The sponge was leaking frothy soap all over Katya’s tightly closed fist. “I hope from you,” Katya whispered, almost automatically. She suddenly yanked the faucet handle, and a stream of cool water splashed over her hands and onto the front of her shirt. Trixie’s hand slid away, and Katya exhaled. 

After the dishes were clean, Trixie had to argue with Katya to leave them for one of the kids to dry. Katya was insisting to dry and put them away, but Trixie got the last word with a stomp and a pout. Now they walked towards the barn, Trixie’s first stop on the Tour De Firkus. Katya was smoking a cigarette, which she had whipped out of a crushed box in her back jeans pocket the moment they stepped outside. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” she had asked, already lighting the Camel. Trixie informed her that her friend, Pearl, smoked often for looks, and that she didn’t mind. 

“Dirty habit,” Katya had muttered as she took a drag. Trixie watched the smoke curl around her lips and nose with awe. “Dirty, dirty habit. Don’t ever start. And tell your friend Pearl to quit!”

“What about you?” Trixie asked. 

“Do as I say, not as I do,” Katya had commanded gravely, a hand on her heart. Trixie laughed. 

She was now explaining the routines regarding the barn as Birdie followed at their heels, occasionally nipping painlessly at their boots. She informed Katya of when the animals were fed, what they were fed, how often to clean the barn, et cetera—as well as the specific instruction to give them “plenty of love.” Katya listened intently and with genuine interest. She responded mostly with nods or Uh-huhs, sometimes asking questions, but Trixie didn’t suspect that Katya was at all sidetracked or ignoring her, even her silly stories about falling off Barbie or when Brenda once ran away to Pearl’s dairy farm. 

“What’s that?” Katya asked suddenly, in the middle of Trixie explaining why she had named her dog Birdie. She was pointing at a machine way off in the distance, abandoned and surrounded by tall grass. Its bright red machinery was dulled by rust. 

“Oh,” Trixie said. Katya must have heard her defeated tone, because she turned and cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, oh!” Trixie repeated with forced enthusiasm. “That’s just an old hay baler. Hasn’t been used in… well, almost fifteen years.” Trixie watched the grass sway slowly around the monster of a machine with her jaw set. 

_(I know one when I see one. Yuh.)_

Trixie winced, worried Katya would start to inquire why, but Katya simply hummed and nodded. Trixie could practically see Katya making a note in her mental rolodex of information. They continued on the tour without much else shared between them except what was strictly professional. 

—

“And that’s it!” Trixie finally said. Her throat was becoming sore from the amount of talking she had done. She figured she had never talked so much in such a short period. The last stop was Trixie’s walnut orchard, which she led Katya to with girlish excitement. She was sitting up in her favorite tree, an Oak that someone had planted long ago, a thick trunk with gnarled roots and branches as wide in diameter as her abdomen that stuck out into the sky like arms, reaching out to embrace the sun. She refused to cut it down, even when all the surrounding trees were Walnut and had to constantly compete for water and sunlight. It was her “thinking tree” which, as it was named, she sat in to think or be alone. 

“Not so bad,” Katya said. She cracked a walnut against the oak tree and started to pick the nut away from the shell. “Bob’s farm, Jesus, that fucker was big! And there were tons of farmhands. We all lived together in these…” she made a box with her hands. “Barracks, I wanna say, but they were nice! Just crowded. It’ll be nice to have my own space. My own job.” She sighed wistfully and popped the walnut in her mouth. 

“It will. I’m honestly excited,” Trixie admitted. She swung her feet and scooted up on her branch. “I mean, it’s kind of like a friend my age who lives next door. You’re not one of those crummy old guys who just smoke cigars and get drunk.”

“Don’ speak too sooon,” Katya growled, stretching her lips into a scowl and pretending to stumble drunkenly. “C’mere, babe!” Trixie squealed and kicked out her legs, her white boot whizzing past Katya’s hair. “Feisty one!” Katya snarled, baring her teeth, and looked up at Trixie, shading her eyes with one hand. The sun was rising steadily in the sky now. 

“Oh, shush!” Trixie cried. She stood up on the branch she had previously been sitting on and hugged the trunk of the tree, pressing her cheek against it. 

“No wonder you got a bandaid on your face,” Katya said. She pressed her index finger to one of the sharp twigs that stuck out of the tree. “You do _this_ for fun. You need to be more careful!”

Trixie scoffed, wrapping her calloused palms around a sturdy branch. “I’m fine! Honest,” she assured. 

She stepped out a foot, about to hang from the branch and drop down, but Katya cried out, “No!” and made her slip both feet off the branch unexpectedly. The world suddenly fell beneath her, and her stomach jumped up into her throat. She kicked and felt dizzy. She was certain she was falling, but thanks to her hands already being wrapped around the branch, she simply swung like a door on loose hinges. She gasped, blinking and realizing her safety, but her heartbeat was still thrumming in her ears. She looked at Katya, whose eyes were wide and arms outstretched. 

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m trying to stop you being killed!”

“What? I’ve done this a million times.”

Katya shook her head. “No good. If you fall and break your neck, I’m out of a job. So let me help you down.” 

Trixie laughed dryly, but once again planted her feet on the branch and let go of the one in her hands. She nimbly shimmied back to a sitting position. “What now?” 

Katya stepped closer, hands raised up. “Drop down, and I’ll carry you to the ground.” Trixie started to shove herself off, and Katya winced. _“Slowly!”_

Trixie sighed and gradually slid herself off of the branch, two hands planted firmly to slow her descent. As soon as Katya’s hands were around of her waist, she let go. Instead of collapsing like Trixie expected, Katya steadily lifted her to the ground. Trixie laughed a little bit, and would normally feel quite humiliated by accepting the help, but she just felt taken care of. The feeling was a rare one—she was always doing the caring. 

“There,” Katya said proudly, bending down to gather another fallen walnut and handing it to Trixie with a smile. “No lawsuits!”

“Don’t speak too soon,” Trixie said seriously, taking the peace offering, but Katya understood her sarcasm and chuckled. 

“Let’s go, funny one,” she said, leading Trixie away by the elbow. Trixie threw a glance back at the tree and gasped. “What?” Katya looked around, but nothing had changed. 

Trixie touched a hand to her cheek. “Oh, I just thought I saw…” she faltered, bit her cheek, and turned back around. “Nothing. Just still a little shaken, I guess.” 

Katya rubbed Trixie’s tense shoulders to loosen them and hummed understandingly. “Well, you’re safe with me, so don’t sweat it. C’mon, I think your mama’s home now. She said something about baking muffins.”


	3. Zip Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy im back! ive had this chapter done forever but i just havent had the time to post it at a reasonable hour. i hope you guys like this one!! thanks for all the comments btw i appreciate them! all feedback makes me really happy!

KATYA WAS PACING BACK AND  _ forth, nudging broken bottles and upturned chairs as she walked. The bar was destroyed. The bottles of liquor that just hours ago gleamed on the shelf behind the bar were smashed and still dripping their contents onto the wooden floor. The taxidermied head of a hog was hanging crookedly, glass eyes staring at Katya with indignation. She stepped in puddles of blood mixing and fermenting with liquor. Squelch.  _

 

_ Ginger was watching with horror, her large hip pressed against the corner of the bar and a cigarette flitting to and from her lips. Her long boa scarf had been soaked with the alcohol in the broken bottles, and she had discarded it around a chair with only one leg. A radio that miraculously survived was playing The Crickets’  _ I Fought The Law.

 

_ “Jesus. Lordy Lord.”  _

 

_ Katya lit up her fourth cigarette and huffed. She sat down on a thick leather armchair with two bullet holes—one above her shoulder and one an inch or so above her head—and propped her feet up on a table that slanted drunkenly due to a missing leg.  _

 

_ “Katya, what’re you gonna do?” Ginger tried finally. Her eyes were wide and fearful, and she was dancing in place, like the fuzz would burst in any second.  _

 

_ Katya stared at her own hands and clamped her teeth tightly around her cigarette. Her lip seemed to wobble, and then she steadied it and looked back up at Ginger. “Get the hell out of here, that’s what.”  _

 

_ Ginger went pale. “And just leave us? Everything? You’re gonna run?” _

 

_ “What else do you suggest?” Katya’s voice was unnaturally calm and gravelly. “Stay here? Wait for this—“ she gestured to her destroyed bar, “to happen again? With genuine results? Fuck that. Fuck that to death, man.”  _

 

_ She leapt up from the chair with a groan and threw her cigarette angrily to the floor. It sizzled in a small puddle of crimson.  _

 

_ “Gimme Bob’s number.” _

 

_ “Katya, I ain’t gonna let you—“ _

 

_ “ _ Ginger!”  _ Katya hissed. She flashed her teeth in a twisted snarl and kicked over a chair as she marched up to the larger woman. “Give. Me. His. Number.” Ginger blinked in surprise and sighed.  _

 

_ “This is a mistake,” she said as she scribbled down a few digits, careful not to set the paper in any of the spilled drink. “Never saw you as a runner.” She slid the piece of paper across the counter and Katya stuffed it in her pocket. She picked up her leather jacket.  _

 

_ “I never thought I’d do what I did,” she said almost somberly, staring at the floor. Then, her snappy and pointed tone returned. “For God’s sake, what is this honky-tonk shit?” She pointed accusingly at the radio, where Sonny Curtis still warbled.  _

 

“Robbin’ people with a

 

_ (BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG) _

 

zip gun

 

I fought the law and the... law won,”

 

—

 

“ _ I fought the law and the… law won!” _

 

Trixie had punched the ceiling of the truck in time with the bangs from the zip gun in the song, and swung her head along to the lyrics as she sang them. Katya glanced over at her and grinned, one rough hand loosely wrapped around the steering wheel and the other one outside the window, her elbow jutting out in the sunshine. 

 

“You’re gonna break your own truck, Miss Trixie,” she said calmly. 

 

“Huh! As if.” Trixie patted the dashboard with love. “This thing can outrun a pack of coyotes, sure shit. It can hit a moose and come out without a scratch!” She whistled and smacked her bubblegum. “Sure as shit.” The slightly rusty old yellow pickup had been bought at a steal by her mom when she was fourteen, which was also when she started driving it. The laws in town were rather lax about that, and Trixie knew that in other states kids as young as ten got behind the wheel. She could tear around corners and race the devil in that truck, which she frequently did. The glovebox was stuffed with napkins and melted lipsticks, discarded jewelry she had forgotten, a few church pamphlets and speeding tickets. There was always some mug with days-old coffee dried at the bottom in the cup holder. 

 

She looked at Katya with sparkling eyes. Katya’s dirty blonde hair, that she refused to pin back or up, was blowing in her face, sticking to her lipstick which she carefully pulled out every now and then. The cigarette between her teeth puffed smoke like a steam engine. Trixie’s hand twitched with the urge to slide over onto Katya’s denim-clad thigh, but she resisted, just barely. Katya’s black bra was visible in the sunshine through her white long sleeved shirt (which she, of course, pushed up to her elbows). Trixie kicked her feet up onto her dashboard, sighing loudly. Her pink gingham dress slipped past her knees. 

 

“You’re in an awful good mood,” Katya said as The Crickets slowly began to fade out.  _ You’re listening to WKTM, 108.5 F.M… Good Music for Good Folk.  _

 

Trixie shrugged. “I guess I am. Maybe it’s just cause so much is happening.” Trixie started to unwrap a banana bread muffin as she contemplated. There was a new farmhand that was now, she assumed, a friend to her, business was booming, and she had even gotten a job opportunity at their local boutique. A friend of Dusty-Ray’s ran the joint, and had recommended, per Dusty’s description of Trixie, that she come in for an interview. Life, Trixie thought daringly, was pretty good. 

 

She took a bite of the muffin (being careful to chew around her gum) and ripped off another piece for Katya. Katya shook her head. “No, thank you, girlie.”

 

“Oh, don’t ‘no, thank you’ me,” Trixie scoffed. “You remember what I told you? You’re gonna get a good breakfast every day. And  _ I  _ made these.” She stuck out her bottom lip and fluttered her eyelashes. Katya glanced at her, sighed, and yanked her cigarette out of her mouth. 

 

“You sure are stubborn, Miss Trixie.”

 

“If stubborn means I want you to work on a full belly...” Trixie offered the muffin again. Katya snarled and snapped her jaws like she was going for Trixie’s fingers, making Trixie squeal and then tell her to “quit laughing!” before finally letting Trixie feed it to her. 

 

“God damn, you’re a good cook,” Katya sighed. “Sincerely. You gotta quit it, or I’m gonna gain fifty pounds while I’m here!” Trixie felt her stomach warm up and send tingles through her spine at the flattery. Nobody complimented her cooking much these days, since she started doing it so frequently. She fed Katya another bite as she flicked her finished cigarette out the window. “I can’t resist it from you, either, that’s the worst part. You can really make a girl feel guilty.” 

 

Trixie smiled wide and finished the rest. “Good! Like I said, I won’t let you go hungry.”

 

Katya tugged playfully on the cross necklace around Trixie’s neck before letting it fall back on her chest. “Saint Beatrice, O Holy Girl…” Trixie screeched with laughter and slapped Katya’s hand away. 

 

“There, that one!” she cried, quickly swinging her legs back down and pointing towards a small wooden house on a turn up ahead. For a brief moment her dress pooled at her waist, flashing her white panties, before it naturally settled at her knees again. Katya swerved the truck violently to the right and Trixie squealed as she was tossed to the left, pressed up against Katya (she never wore a seatbelt). She splayed her hands to break the impact and gripped Katya’s toned thigh. “Jesus!”

 

“Sorry! Sorry,” Katya steadied the truck and grabbed the wheel with both hands. “You told me too late.” 

 

Trixie slowly peeled herself away from Katya, her arm slightly sticky with sweat. She blew her hair out of her face. “You need to get used to driving an old rig like this one, City Girl,” she huffed. 

 

Katya barked a laugh as she crawled the truck to a halt in front of the house. “Can’t handle a little rough roadin’, Miss Trixie? I thought you raced coyotes in this thing.”

 

“Sure shit. But I can drive.” 

 

Katya gasped dramatically and pressed her hand over her chest. “Horrid! Just rotted!” She cried more wordy adjectives until Trixie started to get out of the truck. Then, Katya swung her own door open, hopped down, and ran around the truck like a Scooby-Doo character in order to open Trixie’s door for her. Trixie looked at her and groaned. 

 

“I’m not a princess, I’ve told you that a million times.” She spit her gum into the dirt. 

 

Katya grinned. “You sure? Cause what I’m doin’ feels a lot like indentured servitude sometimes.”

 

“Are you saying I treat you bad?!”

 

“Qu-ite the  _ con _ -trrary!” Katya simply took the basket full of muffins from Trixie’s hands and let the taller girl drop down on her own. 

 

“Oh! Do you want to meet the girls?” Trixie asked, a smile on her glossed lips. Katya suddenly shrunk in demurely, shifting from foot to foot. 

 

“Aw, I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I don’t wanna intrude, and I have work to do—“

 

“Shush! It’ll only be a minute,” Trixie was already dragging Katya towards the door. “Dusty-Ray’s parents aren’t even home, and all her brothers are moved out. Don’t worry about them.” She rapped on the door with her knuckles and called, “ _ Yoo-hoo!” _

 

The door swung open almost immediately. A thin girl with long, beachy hair that fell and bounced a little down past her armpits was standing there, rings and chunky bracelets dangling and jingling. Her heavy makeup was applied with a steadier hand than Trixie’s, but still equally ridiculous. Glitter all over her eyelids, circles of black around her eyes, the works. She smacked her gum and looked Katya up and down, who was standing timidly behind Trixie with the basket in her hands. 

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hey, Willam,” Trixie said. Willam was the county whore who also happened to be her friend. 

 

“I wasn’t talking to you!” Willam snapped before turning and smiling at Katya. Pearl and Dusty were behind her, somewhat shrouded in darkness, but Trixie could hear them giggling.

 

Katya tugged uneasily at her collar and smiled in return. “Hiya! I’m, uh, Miss Trixie’s new farmhand!” She extended her hand towards Willam. Pearl and Dusty looked like they were about to keel over and die trying not to laugh, and Trixie glared at them both. 

 

“Her name’s Ka—Katherine,” she announced proudly (Katya seemed to have been very serious about only Trixie being able to call her Katya).

 

Willam hummed and looked with disinterest at Katya’s offered hand. “Twenty for a quickie.”

 

Katya blinked; sweat was gathering at her forehead. “Huh?”

 

The girls finally broke and screamed with laughter, and Willam laughed, too. She sounded like a dying mule, gasping and haw-ing as she shook Katya’s hand. “Oh my God, I’m just fucking with you! Hiii!”

 

Katya blushed. Trixie wanted to hug her. Willam’s eyes finally landed on Trixie as she patted Katya’s shoulder. “She’s a good one! Didn’t jump on me like your weasel of a stepdad!”

 

Trixie rolled her eyes. “Willam, you’ve never met my stepdad.”

 

“You don’t know that!”

 

When Trixie looked again, Katya was actually laughing. She didn’t seem so anxious, which made Trixie finally relax, too. Pearl and Dusty-Ray wiggled past Willam and introduced themselves to Katya. Katya was cool and stupidly friendly, nodding as they spoke, laughing at their jokes, even grabbing their arms playfully. Trixie felt a strange pang in her stomach, especially when Katya’s eyes flickered towards Willam in her tiny dress that exposed her cleavage and she licked her lips. 

 

“Did you make these?” Pearl asked as she gestured towards the basket of muffins. 

 

“What? Oh, no way! Trixie made ‘em.” Trixie perked up at her mention. Katya was looking warmly at her, and she winked. “She’s the best cook in the whole world, I think. I never had stuff like hers.” She passed the basket to Trixie. For a moment their fingers tangled, and Katya rubbed her thumb against Trixie’s wrist. 

 

“Well, it was really nice meeting you,” Katya said finally. The girls whined and begged her to stay, but Katya held up a hand and shook her head solemnly. “I have a job that isn’t just driving Trixie around! I hope you guys have fun, huh?” 

 

Katya wrapped an arm around Trixie’s waist and squeezed. “If you need me to come pick you up, just call, alright? I’ll probably be out working, but your Mama’ll tell me and I’ll be here like—“ she snapped her fingers, “that.” She patted Trixie’s back and then she was sliding away and backing off the porch. She blew the girls a kiss and waved before turning and jogging back to the truck, her boots kicking up dust and her broad shoulders flexing under her shirt. Trixie had to be yanked inside by her friends, and by the time she looked out the window, Katya was out of sight. 

 

—

 

“That was the cutest thing I ever saw, swear to Jesus,” Dusty-Ray said as she unwrapped her second muffin. They were all on her living room floor, listening to Trixie’s portable radio due to the alarming lack of a television. 

 

“What was?”

 

“You guys!” Pearl finished, sitting on her heels. “We heard the truck come up—it’s one noisy fucker, Trixie—and we watched out the window.”

 

“She opened the door for you!” Dusty cried, picking up the wrapper Willam had tossed to the floor. “Is she always like that? Like a little servant?”

 

Trixie looked into her lap. “No. Sometimes, though. It’s—“ she laughed lightly. “It’s pretty funny, actually. She goes from ragging on me like hell to treating me like a delicate little china doll.”

 

“She likes you,” Willam said flatly. 

 

Pearl, Dusty, and Trixie whipped their heads around like a couple of owls. “Does not!” Trixie cried. 

 

“And you like her!” Willam said more accusingly. 

 

“No!” Trixie looked around at Pearl and Dusty. “You don’t think so, do you?” They swallowed and shared a look, sucking in a breath. “Guys?”

 

Willam crossed her legs and clasped her hands on her knee. She sneered as Trixie looked between her and the other girls frantically, like Birdie when she was a little puppy in her cage. 

 

_ (Beatrice, don’t you dare do a thing like that again!) _

 

“Well…” Pearl said apprehensively. “We just been thinking…”

 

Trixie’s jaw dropped and she glared at Dusty-Ray and Willam. Dusty cringed away from her stare. Willam fixed her lipstick. 

 

“Screw you guys. Oh, screw you to  _ hell _ .”

 

“Don’t say that!” Dusty said, lip quivering. “Don’t say a thing like that!” 

 

“Sorry,” Trixie said reflexively. “Pearl, why would you—“

 

_ (I didn’t do anything, Mama!) _

 

“It’s not gossip!” Pearl cried. She had, for once, dropped her uncaring and smooth tone. “We—Aw, shit, Trixie, it ain’t like that. I don’t— _ We  _ don’t care!” She looked at Willam and Dusty. “Right, girls?” They both nodded. Trixie was burning red, and she thought she might start crying. Never had she been so thoroughly embarrassed. 

 

Pearl took her hand and Trixie wanted to die. “I’m from Miami, there are plenty of queers—I mean, you know. Plenty of people like that there. My aunties are lesbians, did you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Dusty-Ray offered. “My folks—well, of course they don’t like it. But I never understood…” she faltered and looked at the myriad of crosses on the wall. “I never understood, you know? I don’t understand a lot of what they say is bad. So I’m not… I ain’t gonna tell ‘em. I wouldn’t tell ‘em if you killed someone, Trixie, I swear on God.”

 

Trixie opened her mouth to speak, but she had to swallow the lump in her throat. Tears fell anyway. Her stringy blonde hair hung miserably in her face. “I ain’t even told you if I am or not yet,” she mumbled quietly. 

 

“Well, are you?” Willam said. She tapped her hip impatiently. “I have money on this.”

 

In spite of her embarrassment and misery, Trixie laughed weakly and wiped her nose. She looked at a giant painting of Christ Himself hung above Dusty-Ray’s fireplace. “Out of all the places I could say, I feel the worst about it here.” 

 

Dusty-Ray suddenly jumped to her feet. She scurried to the painting and grabbed it by the corners. “I think this is technically blasphemy, but…” she turned the painting around on its string and steadied it. 

 

Trixie laughed again. “Does that mean He can’t hear me?” 

 

Dusty smiled and blushed a little. “Naw. But if it makes you feel better…”

 

Trixie took a wavering breath. She looked back at Willam, awaiting another loving and awkward spiel, but the woman just shrugged. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

 

Trixie grinned and flipped her the bird. “Okay, fine. I guess I am. Yeah, I guess so.” The whole group seemed to sigh with relief. 

 

“Finally,” Pearl muttered. 

 

“Fuck you! You aren’t even my type!” 

 

They all laughed, and the tension so easy pliable melted away. Trixie laughed the hardest and the longest. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was still laughing hysterically until Willam finally clapped her on the back and told her to quit it. Trixie blew into her handkerchief and cursed herself for ruining her makeup. 

 

“Sorry I’m such a wreck.”

 

“Like I said, I won’t tell anyone else unless you do,” Willam said. “And y’all won’t either, right? Cause she’ll kill you. You know she will!”

 

“My lips are sealed,” Dusty agreed. 

 

“Who the hell would I tell in this shitty town, anyway?” Pearl lamented. Trixie rabbit-punched her. “Ow! No, I won’t tell anyone!”

 

“So will you  _ please  _ tell us about this Katherine chick?” Willam groaned. “Cause she’s definitely a big dyke like you. Did you see how she was looking at  _ mee _ ?” Willam’s voice jumped a few octaves on the last word, and Trixie groaned. “I’m kidding! I mean, only kind of. She’s definitely a dyke.”

 

“Well…” Trixie’s face suddenly lit up with a mischievous smile. “I think so, too.”

 

“HAVE YOU FUCKED?” Willam demanded. 

 

“NO! But I… Well, this morning…”

 

“I woke up, and we had made the muffins the day before, so I wanted to get them to you. But I wanted to tell Katya before I left. It was, like, 6:30 when I went down there, and I knew she’d be out working. I was just gonna leave a note, but…”

 

“What?!” Dusty-Ray cried. Pearl wacked her upside the head. 

 

Trixie smiled shyly. “I decided to snoop around. I know I shouldn’t have! But she finally unpacked most of her stuff, and I was curious, you know? She had almost all her clothes on the floor. Didn’t even bother with the dresser. All that was in there were a few outfits that were obviously from New York. Really rock ‘n roll; a leather jacket, black and red slacks, mesh tops. I would love to see her in them, but in this town? Forget about it. She loves the color red. She had a red hairbrush, nail polish,  and about a million red lipsticks on her bedside. She put two roses in the eyes of the goat skull I put in her room—yes, Michael’s goat skull, Pearl, I didn’t have much else to decorate! She also put in some candles, and there were already a few cigarettes in an ashtray she brought. It’s shaped like two hands, isn’t that weird?”

 

“What was in her panty drawer?” Willam interrupted. “You looked in there, right?”

 

“No!” Trixie said. “I didn’t snoop / _ that/ _ much. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself. But… I found, um…” She wrung her hands in her lap, a smug smile playing at her lips. “Nah, I shouldn’t tell you guys…” The girls all screamed and shouted at her to fess up. 

 

“Fine!” Trixie looked around at all of them and bit her lip. “She had playboy magazines on her bed.” 

 

They all gasped, and Willam was yanking on her arm. “No  _ way!  _ She did not! You’re lying!”

 

“I’m not! They were right there, open, on her bed! Two issues. Both from this year.”

 

“But those magazines have interviews and stuff,” Pearl offered. “Are you sure—?”

 

“She had the dirty pages bookmarked with ripped off cardboard from her cigarette boxes.” The girls all hollered. Dusty was looking at Trixie through her fingers, and Willam started haw-ing again. 

 

“What’d you do?”

 

“I got the hell out of there! What if she came in and found me?”

 

“You’d be limping in here thirty minutes late, that’s what,” Willam said. Pearl hushed her and gestured to Dusty. 

 

“Shut it. Anyways, I got outta there and decided I was just gonna find her and tell her. So I looked all around—the barn, the field, the orchards. But I couldn’t find her. Finally I did, and guess where she was?” They did not guess. “She was pruning Mama’s garden.” They didn’t say anything, and Trixie smiled big again. “With her shirt off.”

 

That made the girls just about lose their minds. Willam gasped, screamed, and fell backwards with a thump, fanning herself. Dusty-Ray stood up and ran mad circles around the room, punching Trixie on the shoulder and patting their heads like they were playing duck duck goose. Pearl just looked at Trixie with her jaw agape, then lunged forward and grabbed Trixie’s curly pigtails, yanking them and begging her to say they did, indeed, screw.

 

“No! Ow, Pearl, let go!” Trixie cried. Her face was heating up just remembering it. “She had her bra on!” This was true. Katya’s black lace bra with pointed cups was covering her small breasts, and nothing major was revealed. But that didn’t stop the stirring in Trixie’s stomach. She was bent over in her mother’s marigolds, glove clad hands trimming and weeding. Sweat was dripping down her neck and glistened on her muscular, tanned back. Her shoulder blades worked and her toned ass looked amazing in her jeans. Her tattoos stood out against the bright sun—Tattoos! There was some kind of card on her right bicep. An image of Jesus with a bloody crown of thorns and pupiless eyes was on her left, but Trixie didn’t think it was because she was religious (for there was a pentagram on his forehead, which Trixie left out). There was also what appeared to be a small tattoo of a shark eating a pair of legs with the words “FUCKED FOREVER” above it on her neck. And finally, the biggest siren song of them all; two small female symbols linked together on her chest. What other tattoos could she have where Trixie couldn’t see? Trixie had just stood there, rooted to the spot, her knees knocking together. Finally, Katya had caught sight of the awed girl and stood back up to face her. She smiled wide and was breathing somewhat heavily. Her soft belly that was in rolls as she bent over now revealed the outline of abs and shone with sweat. 

 

“Oh! Trixie!” she had said, moving the hair that clung to the back of her neck and forehead. “I didn’t see you. Do you need something?”

 

“Where is your shirt?” Trixie had responded bluntly. She was staring at Katya’s arms. 

 

“Shit, I forgot about that!” Katya cried. She quickly grabbed her shirt, which had been resting on the roof of the shed next to the garden. “When I was filling the water trough, I accidentally got myself soaked. I was leaving the shirt to dry.” Her skin turned pink under her foundation, but she made no attempt to cover herself up. “I didn’t think anybody’d see me. Do you need me?”

 

_ (yes so badly) _

 

“Can you drive me to Dusty’s?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Trixie, you stupid prude!” Willam screamed, and Trixie remembered she was still in Dusty’s living room. 

 

“Tattoos,” Dusty said with awe. “Those are  _ illegal…” _

 

“She was flirting! She was  _ lying!”  _

 

“No, it was true. Her shirt was wet.”

 

“Did it on purpose!”

 

“How would she have known I’d come out?”

 

_ “Because you like her!”  _ they all screamed. “Jinx!” Dusty punched Willam and Pearl on the arm. Instead of punching back twice as hard as they normally would, they just stared in disbelief at Trixie. 

 

“Alright,” Willam said with a sigh, standing up and groaning. “If you don’t get her in bed in the next few days, you’re not my friend. You’re already standing on thin ice, and your fat ass is about to sink!” Everyone giggled, but they were staring intensely at Trixie. It made her skin crawl. 

 

“Aw, Trixie doesn’t have to do nothin’,” Dusty said kindly. “But you should tell her! Think about it. Get married, have little babies!” 

 

Trixie punched out a “Ha” and rolled her eyes as Pearl burst out laughing. She stood up and smoothed her dress. “I’m not having a kid now! And besides, I couldn’t do something like that. I’m busy taking care of the kids already.”

 

Pearl and Willam groaned at the mention of Trixie’s step siblings. “Little ankle-biters,” Willam hissed. “All of ‘em.” 

 

“I think they’re cute!”

 

“That’s cause you don’t have to be with them every day, Dusty-Ray,” Trixie said with a sigh. She went to the bathroom to fix her makeup, still talking. “They like Katherine, though. She’s real sweet with them. Can’t help cursing around them, but she tries so hard not to. It’s cute.”

 

Dusty-Ray squealed. “See! See how cute having babies would be?” 

 

Trixie dabbed at the messy black streaks on her cheeks with a wet cloth and smiled. Maybe having her  _ own  _ baby wouldn’t be so bad. Cradling her, dressing her up, kissing her soft cheek. Maybe she would stay home while Katya worked, just playing with the baby and watching Disney movies and reading books, and then Katya would come home and pick her up and kiss Trixie, and

 

_ (Honey, I’m home!) _

 

_ (Don’t you ever do a thing like that again!) _

 

_ (There are plenty of queers—I mean, people like that there.) _

 

Trixie suddenly shut off the water. She patted at her red eyes and used Dusty-Ray’s mother’s eyeliner without asking. When she came out of the bathroom, she glanced at the clock with a sigh, and then back at the girls. “I have to go home.” 

 

—

 

Trixie stomped down the dirt path, holding down her skirt with one hand and shielding her eyes with the other. The wind had picked up sufficiently, and now her hair was whipping into her face and driving her backwards. Every step took extra effort and dust blew into her eyes. Birdie barked into the wind and it carried the sound for miles. Trixie instinctively tucked her two pigtails into the back collar of her dress to keep them out of her face. 

 

There was a constant  _ whoosh  _ of corn and tall grass, swaying and brushing against each other in Trixie’s ears. The dull hum was almost maddening, but Trixie didn’t notice. “Katya!” she called. “Where are you? It’s almost dinner!” The sun bore into her back, right above her, casting almost no shadow. 

 

Suddenly, a hand shot up fifty or so feet away in the tall grass and waved. Katya presumably stood up, and Trixie could see her waving and jumping. Trixie snorted with laughter and waved back, finally walking towards her, trampling uncut grass and weeds beneath her boots. As she grew closer, she felt her stomach start to drop. Katya was standing by the old hay baler. Trixie walked faster. 

 

By the time Katya was a few yards away, Trixie was in an almost full-blown run, and her heart was thrumming crazily in her chest. Katya just smiled and waved. A wrench was in her hand. 

 

“Hey, Trixie! Did someone else give you a ride? How was it?” Trixie was then standing with her feet rooted to the ground, hands flexing jerkily at her sides. She wanted to run forward, but her body wouldn’t let her get any closer. Her throat felt like sandpaper. 

 

Katya didn’t wait for a response and tapped the hay baler with the wrench. “I was just taking a look at this old thing. It’s a beautiful machine, I can’t believe you guys don’t use it! All it needs is a little fixing up, and—“ she bent down to reach inside the rusty jaws and show Trixie a piece of the machinery. It yawned open, reaching for her, waiting for her to get just close enough to—

 

Her long blonde hair blew inside and Trixie let out a horrible scream. Katya yelped as well in shock at the noise, jerking out her arm, and Trixie nearly tripped over herself to run and catch Katya by the back of the shirt. She hauled the shorter woman away so fast and so hard that she practically  _ threw  _ her. Katya fell flat on her ass, her wrench flying out of her hand and her elbows skidding on the dirt. 

 

Trixie looked down at her. Her arm wasn’t torn off. She was fine, but she was looking up at Trixie in a daze. Her mouth was agape and her eyes wide and unblinking. Trixie was standing with her shoulders hunched, towering over the older girl, chest heaving. She eclipsed the sun in a halo around her head. Birdie barked and whined nervously, pawing at her dress. Then, her lip wobbled, and her hands flew to her face as she began to cry. 

 

Katya, still in a daze, jumped to her feet and hugged Trixie close to her. Trixie wrapped her arms around Katya’s waist and clung to her like a little girl, burying her face in Katya’s shoulder. She wanted to stop crying and calmly explain to Katya why she did what she did. She wanted to laugh and let go. But she couldn’t. She just weeped into Katya’s shirt and bunched up the fabric in her hands. 

 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Katya murmured. She petted Trixie’s hair gently as she tried to soothe her. “I’m okay! You didn’t hurt me. It’s all—“

 

“Thuh-That’s not it!” Trixie bawled. She swallowed and sniffed grossly. “I juh-just, you w-w-were in there, and I—“ she sobbed hysterically again. “Ho-oh-oh GOD!” 

 

“ _ What?”  _ Katya asked. She sounded a little scared, in truth, and held Trixie even tighter. Birdie was rubbing against both of them and whimpering. 

 

Trixie blubbered unintelligibly again. Every time she tried to gather herself, she saw  _ it  _ again and was sent back into hysterics. 

 

“She—“

 

_ (baby) _

 

“She was ih-ih-ih—“

 

_ (you fucking baby) _

 

“ _ in  _ there, she weh-went in—“

 

_ (Cherry? CHERRY!) _

  
_ “AND IT KIH-IH-ILLED HER!”  _ Trixie finally shrieked, lifting her head up in her cry before dropping it back down. “My sih-ister! My  _ sister!”  _


	4. The Mirefield Tribute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is mostly a lot of gorey backstory so sorry if youre not into that lol. thats why im posting chapter 5 too! which is fun!! also, ive been hearing that my updates arent showing up on the front page? is that happening to you guys? okay thanks bye!!

**AUGUST 2, 1952**

**THE MIREFIELD TRIBUTE**

 

**BLOODY HAY BALER ACCIDENT LEAVES RESIDENTS STUNNED**

**By Jaymes Mansfield**

**(Police Reporter)**

 

In an unfortunate and horrific accident that occurred last night, Sherri Mattel, 9, was killed in an accident relating to a hay baler. Police assume that the incident occurred between 6 and 8 PM. The body was found at 9 PM by her mother (Martha Mattel, 27), father (John Mattel, 30), and sister (Beatrice Mattel, 4) when Sherri did not come home at the supper bell. When she was not found at her friends’ houses, they began to search their own property and came across the bloody scene. Police are not able to make a statement about exactly what happened at this time, but no foul play is suspected. Sherri would have turned 10 next week. 

 

_ “Beatrice, where is your sister?” Martha asked exasperatedly. She was a young woman of only twenty-seven at the time, obsessively fixing her hair in the grimy mirror that hung above their small fireplace. Martha often fussed with her hair when she was nervous—once, later that year, she even dyed it blonde in a hysteric spell. She brushed it and changed her hair part and curled it as if to say, is this good enough? How about this? Trixie was only four years old, Martha’s miracle of a second daughter (who then became her only daughter until about a year later, when she became pregnant with another man’s child in a fruitless attempt to gain back what she lost), and she was currently preoccupied with a party for her stuffed bear. _

 

_ She cocked her head at her Mama, long blonde hair shifting in the light, and shook it. “I dunno. Can I have desert, Mama?” _

 

_ “No, Beatrice. Not until we find your sister.” _

 

_ “Mama!” _

 

_ Martha ignored her whining daughter and scurried into her and her husband’s room (Trixie could still hear that maddening click-clack of her heels, see her mother’s overbrushed black hair sway. She remembered that night in fragments). Mr. Mattel was lying in his bed. Beer bottles lined the dresser and the whole room reeked of stale alcohol and tobacco chew. Martha could have retched. She threw open the window and slammed open the shutters, letting the moonlight fall in shafts. It illuminated her like a wailing, fragile ghost, wringing her hands and echoing sobs into the frightened minds of the living. Mr. Mattel was a pale shadow.  _

 

_ “John.” He grunted.  _

 

“John!”  _ She shook him by the shoulder, something she would usually never dare do when he was drunk. He finally rolled over and sat up, groaning. Drool dribbled over his frowning lips and into his patchy blonde beard, reflecting in the starchy white light. His pale blue eyes gazed at her listlessly, swimming in a glaze like molasses that wouldn’t let them move or react to anything in time. He was sweating like a stuck pig.  _

 

_ “What, Martha?”  _

 

_ “Where on earth is Cherry?” _

 

_ “Hell if I know. Hell if I care.” _

 

_ Martha’s lip wobbled and her breath caught in her throat. She put a hand to her mouth and swallowed her tears. “Don’t you dare say a thing like that.” That was always her go to phrase. Don’t you dare do this, don’t you dare do that! _

 

_ “Probably at one of her friend’s houses, Martha, Christ!”  _

 

_ Martha sighed and somehow managed to regain her composure. She gazed out the window for a long while. Wind was whipping through the long grass and bending it to its will as good as any tractor, it howled and whistled in her ear, their curtains flapping with loud claps like bat wings, dangerously close to falling off of their cheap rod. Martha pulled her shawl tighter over her shoulders.  _

 

_ “Hi, Beth, this is Martha…” Trixie watched as her Mama stood in the corner of their small kitchen, chewing the spiral phone cord and listening with visibly growing uneasiness. Her pupils were completely lost amidst the dark brown they rested in, and she looked like she had two black buttons instead of eyes, slanting due to the intense furrowing of her eyebrows. Trixie remembered thinking that. That she looked like her button-eyed Dolly. “She’s not there? Left around five? I see. Well, thank you very much. Call me if she shows up. Buh-Bye.” _

 

_ Martha heard the click on the other end of the line and the dial tone begin to buzz, but she kept the phone pressed to her ear. It was as if she was expecting the line to click again and for Cherry’s bubbly voice to say Hi, Mama! Well, I’m just at Mary’s, that’s all! Martha quickly began to dial another number. She stared at the white label in the middle of the rotary, chewing her blunt nails.  _

 

_ FOR: _

_ FIRE,  _

_ POLICE _

_ AMBULANCE  _

_ CALL 911 _

 

Not yet,  _ she thought to herself repeatedly.  _ Not yet. Don’t let it come to that.  _ The line clicked. “Hi, is this Patrice? It’s Martha…” _

 

**AUGUST 5, 1952**

**THE MIREFIELD TRIBUTE**

 

**SHERRI “CHERRY” MATTEL PULLED INTO HAY BALER BY HER HAIR, POLICE SAY**

**By Jaymes Mansfield**

**(Police Reporter)**

 

As this incident (found in last week’s issue of The Mirefield Tribute) is investigated further, the police are certain this was, indeed, being just a freak accident. Upon questioning, Mr. Mattel admitted to accidentally leaving his tractor running as he went inside. Sherri had been out playing with her mother’s permission. Police suspect, due to the rubber ball also found in the machine, that Sherri wandered up to the hay baler for her ball. Her loose hair then became entangled in a secondary driveline about four feet off the ground and pulled her into the running machine, crushing her to death. Police urge local farmers to always make sure their equipment is turned off, to monitor any small children playing near it, and to always pin back long hair when working with said machinery. Mr. Mattel, and the rest of the family, denied comment. 

 

_ “John, she’s not there!” Martha sobbed, handkerchief held within a tightly closed fist. “She’s nuh-not anywhere! Oh God, she’s missing! Why wouldn’t she come for the supper bell?” The wind had completely disappeared by now. The only noise was her terrified rambling. Martha had spent about an hour in that kitchen next to the phone, eventually sitting on the linoleum floor and wracking with sobs in between each call to, as it seemed, the entire town (which was not difficult to imagine, with the miniscule population). Trixie didn’t know what to do. She had never seen her mother cry. She continued to play with her toys.  _

 

_ “Now, Martha,” John said, rubbing his hysterical wife’s back. “She’s gotta be somewhere. Maybe she’s just playing a trick, you know?” But he didn’t sound confident. Cherry wasn’t a known prankster, and he doubted she would start being one now. Cherry was a sweet girl—she had straight A’s, plenty of friends, and loved her baby sister more than anything. She loved dressing Trixie up like a doll, babying her, picking her up and dancing, braiding her hair. Trixie remembered almost none of it. There were fuzzy fragments—her dress getting caught on the T.V set while Cherry was carrying her. Handing Cherry an ornament for the christmas tree. Cherry pulling her hair too hard when she brushed and braided it. Her mother seemed to remember all of it except the bad parts. She didn’t remember the tantrums and the rule breaking accustomed to all children and the shattering of a window in anger after Mr. Mattel spanked her, or she chose not to. Cherry was an angel touched down upon earth, and now she was an angel up in Heaven, as far as she was concerned.  _

 

_ “Mama, what’s that noise?” Trixie asked. She had been standing in the doorway, a little pale figure in a puffy pink dress, crinkling her petticoat. Her Mama had been too busy to change her into a nightgown, or even to change herself into one.  _

 

“What  _ noise?” Martha asked desperately. Trixie didn’t speak, and pointed towards the window. She looked like a little ghost. Then, it happened again:  _

 

_ KRRR-CHUNK _

 

_ KRRR-CHUNK _

 

_ KRRR-RR- _

 

_ The noise sputtered with difficulty way off in the distance.  _

 

_ -CRUNCH.  _

 

_ Martha’s heart stopped. Her blood turned to ice, to salty ocean water, blue and frothing in her veins. Her head throbbed and she held onto the windowsill as images flashed through her head. The casket, the obituary, the papers. It was the most horrible thing she’d heard in her life, the absolute siren song of death. It was far off, but in the dead stillness of the night the sound was carried over the flat Wisconsin plains.  _

 

_ KRRR-CHUNK _

 

_ “What in the fuck?” Martha said. Trixie’s eyes were brimming with tears. The smell of the alcohol, her mother constantly crying and now cursing, the noise.  _

 

_ “John, did you leave the tractor on?” The short Ojibwe woman asked placidly. Trixie’s Daddy looked blankly at his wife and swallowed.  _

 

_ “I—I don’t know.” _

 

_ Martha opened her mouth, her face screwing up in horror and hatred, then snapped it shut. She flew out of the bedroom, her skirt rippling behind her and hair bouncing. Trixie reached for her, but her little fists closed around air.  _

 

_ “Da-dee,” she said in a long, drawn out whine. She was tired and scared and nobody would even look at her. “What’s goin’ on?!” She finally started to cry, sitting down on the hard floor and wailing up into the stuffy air. It echoed in the tiny house and rang in Mr. Mattel’s ears as he sat unmoving on the bed, hands closed in tight fists on his muddy knees. He looked like a cold marble statue. They heard the screen door slam and the quick, shuffling steps of Martha walking down the porch. “Daddy!”  _

 

_ Trixie’s Daddy shot to his feet and stomped up to the doorway. Trixie lunged forward like a baseball player making home base and grabbed his pant leg. He stopped and looked down at Trixie, and Trixie’s blood ran cold. Never had he looked at her with such disdain. It was such a bitter expression that Trixie thought, for a moment, he might  _ spit  _ at her. Instead, the mean drunk came out with a blow to the back of the head. Trixie’s small body lurched with the force, stars exploded behind her eyes--he had never laid a hand on her before. _

 

_ “Stop being such a fucking baby!” he boomed. He reached down in a flash like a skilled fisherman with a spear and closed his fist around Trixie’s small arm, lugging her to her feet and starting to drag her along. Out the door, down the porch, across the dirt path, past the barn. Trixie was still crying the whole way, stumbling behind her father, her arm growing sore and bruised from his iron grip. She called for her Mama, who was way out in front of them, barely visible except for her bright yellow dress. The sound got louder.  _

 

_ KRRR-CHUNK _

 

_ “Daddy, stop it! I’m scared! I’m scared!” Trixie imagined what it was. A big monster with gnashing jaws, foam and bile running down its jagged teeth and into its matted fur, crushing their farm and digging up the plots of land with its claws. It was chewing up the tractor, shredding it and growling that horrible noise, waiting for Trixie. She could see their hay baler in the distance, surrounded by a clearing where they had baled away the dead grass. The noise was definitely coming from it, but there was no monster she could see. It was hiding, Trixie thought with the logic only belonging to children and terrified adults. Ready to lunge and grab her Mama.  _

 

_ Martha disappeared around the back of the hay baler and shrieked. She sounded like a coyote that had been hit by a truck, dying and screaming into the night. It was awful.  _

 

_ The monster got her, Trixie concluded, and it’s gonna get me, too. _

 

_ Her Daddy finally let go of her arm and sprinted to the back of the machine, muttering some kind of prayer, or curse. He didn’t scream—or maybe he did, but Trixie didn’t hear it over her Mama’s cries. “Cherry! CHERRY! Oh, God!” Trixie wandered up to the big machine, which she had watched bale hay with childish wonder many times. Its musky grass smell mingled with the smell of something metallic. When Trixie bent at the waist with curiosity and looked inside, there was something dripping towards the back. Oil, maybe. It was black and greasy and thicker than water.  _

 

_ She had, miraculously, stopped crying. There wasn’t a monster! She wanted to go to her Mama and say whatcha crying for, it was just a silly hay baler, like her own mother had soothed her many times. It was the first time Trixie felt a maternal nature compel her to do something, and she wished it hadn’t. She walked confidently to the back of the haybaler and, as she was going to tug Martha’s skirt, she decided to look at the back of the machine. She had never seen it. She didn’t even think about it, really—it was such an insignificant look that, had there not been anything there, Trixie would not remember it if her life depended on it. But she did look, and there  _ was  _ something there.  _

 

_ She saw a rubber ball, deflated by the machine. It was her and Cherry’s rubber ball, purple with the words “SUDBURY LUTHERAN CHURCH” stamped on it. A modest prize for winning an easter egg hunt that year. She, possessed by something, looked up up up and saw one of Cherry’s feet clothed in her red flats dangling a foot or so above Trixie’s head. The heel had slipped off slightly, so the shoe was only dangling by her toes, revealing her white stocking feet. The black, greasy liquid (that Trixie later realized was blood) dripped down her leg. Trixie looked up even further, craning her little neck,  and saw one pale, ghostly hand dangling at the side of Cherry’s black pleated skirt with red flowers embroidered into the sides. Her fingers were curled in slightly, like one’s do when they’re resting or sleeping, but Trixie didn’t know they were locked into that cold position forever. More drops of blood twinkled on her fingernails like polish. Trixie looked up a little more and the rest of Cherry seemed to disappear in thin air (some magic trick, huh?). All she saw were some matted, tangled locks of blonde hair drenched in blood caught in the machine.  _

 

_ Somewhere, Trixie’s Daddy retched, and the smell of stale liquor and vomit mingled with the blood and hay in a horrific, nauseating combination that Trixie could remember to this day.  _ That  _ was the smell of death. Not bloated gas or rotting flesh, but liquor-infused vomit and old hay.  _

 

_ Trixie’s encounter with the body must have lasted ten seconds at most, but those images still came to her at night, clear as day. The ball. The one shoe dangling. The black blood. The ghost hand with bloody fingernail polish. The hair all twisted up in the gears. Her father had finally pulled her away, picked her up, and sprinted to the house to call the police. The rest of the night was a blur of ambulances, the sheriff showing up and then having to request backup from nearby cities, her mother in a state so severe they thought she may have gone completely insane. None of that haunted her. It was just those ten seconds. Funny, how that was all it took.  _

 

**August 22, 1952**

 

Dearest Sue,

 

I wish I were writing you under better circumstances, but things have only gotten worse. As my best friend, I feel as if you are one of the only ones I can find solace in. I am sorry for not responding to your last letter urgently… I was not in a good place. You surely know the answer now, but I will say it again, if not for myself. Yes, Sherri is dead. It doesn’t feel like it, though. I don’t believe it myself, if you can imagine. I saw her lowered into the ground (closed casket) and I still don’t believe it. And don’t be hard on yourself about about not being able to attend, babysitters are hard to come by, I know. I wish I hadn’t had to attend either. Is that sad? Nothing like this has ever happened to me, Sue. They worry I have a couple of screws loose because of it, but I don’t think so. I hope not. 

 

John left yesterday. Just up and disappeared. I woke up and he was gone. I assume it was because of the constant negging from the town, about him leaving the tractor on. But I’ve gotten plenty of it, too, and here I am. Unfortunately. 

 

He took the truck, took a good chunk of money… He took almost everything that I would need. He didn’t take Trixie, but, if you can please not think of me as evil for saying this, I sort of wish he had. That is a horrible thing to say. God forgive me, but I must be truthful with you. I don’t know how I am supposed to take care of her now. Cherry was doing much of the babysitting—more than John, that’s for certain. But he put bread on the table and watched her when I couldn’t, and Cherry is dead, and now I don’t know what to do. Forgive the stains, Sue, but I cannot help crying. Trixie is currently with my mother, but she cannot watch her forever, especially with the state the reservation is in.

 

The hay baling business is obviously kaput. The company that manufactured the baler has taken it in to completely repair it, and even give us some financial compensation—out of pity, I suppose. I couldn’t sue them even if I wanted to. But I can’t ever use that thing again, Sue, could I? How could I use that machine again after what it did? Looking at it makes me sick. I always tie me and Trixie’s hair back when we go outside. Oh, Trixie, the poor thing—she still doesn’t understand. Doesn’t even know something is wrong most of the time. It’s like Cherry never existed. I wonder if it traumatized her. I pray it didn’t. 

 

I am already regretting this letter, but I needed to tell  _ someone _ before I really  _ do  _ go crazy. I’m trying not to take to the bottle, but every day gets harder. I’m so dreadfully alone. Everybody is so thoughtful, but I know what they think. Did she do it? Word spreads in a town like this, Sue, I know it’s different up there in Milwaukee. 

 

I won’t write any more. My heart is already heavy with the realization of my sorrow. Write me back soon, will you? God knows I need it.

 

Yours, 

Martha. 

 

—

 

Katya stood stock still in the midday heat. She was sweating profusely, but Trixie still clung to her. Her sobs had quieted into sniffs and moans. She meant to give a brief explanation, like a scary story from a picture book you bought for a nickel over the counter just to snort at how stupid it all was and then be kept up by it at night. But Trixie spilled everything. She relived the entire night and the weeks following it. She told Katya about her little bear party, her mother crying for hours, the monster drooling bile, the ghost hand and the red flat. She even told Katya that the very comforter she slept in belonged to the dead girl. It was word vomit, spilling onto Katya through wracking, sputtering heaves and sobs. 

 

“And I’m s-sorry for throwing you, but I got so scared…” Trixie said, trailing off. She was finally silent. After talking and crying for what felt like hours, she just stopped and hung her head. She let go of Katya, suddenly feeling like the lamest person in the world for dumping all of that onto her. God, she had only known Katya for three days—what made it acceptable to dump her entire tragic (and gruesome) childhood onto her? Whatever chance she had before was ruined. 

 

Katya simply blinked and looked at the old baler, as if she expected to see bits of yellow hair and a mangled body in the machine that she hadn’t noticed before. It was completely clean. The company had done a good job. 

 

“Trixie,” she began, and then closed her mouth. Her gray eyes darted around in her skull. She was, for once, at a loss for words. 

 

“I shouldn’t have told you any of that,” Trixie said flatly as she picked up the hem of her dress and wiped her face. “I was having such a good day…” she sniffed and shuffled her feet. “And I fucked it up.”

 

“Trixie,” Katya said again. She grabbed Trixie’s arm but Trixie, suddenly revolted by herself, yanked away. 

 

“I’m such a spastic. Maybe Mama was right, maybe I did get traumatized—“

 

“Trixie, that’s not—“

 

“—and now I can’t know anyone without spilling my guts on the floor for them. Without puking up a bunch of horse shit.”

 

“Don’t say that—“

 

“And for what? What do I expect to come from it except for people to realize I’m--”

 

“ _ Trixie.” _ Katya grabbed Trixie by the shoulders, shaking them a bit. Her eyes were pleading as she opened her mouth again, then slowly closed it. She swallowed heavily. She looked like she wanted to tell Trixie something so badly that it was  _ hurting  _ her, but for some odd reason, she couldn’t. Like if she did someone would appear right behind her and blast a bullet

 

_ (robbin’ people with a zip gun) _

 

right between her eyes. She sighed. “None of that is true, Trixie. You were lookin’ out for me. And… it’s obvious you’ve been holding onto this for a long time. You would have blown up anyway. It just happened to be on me. Hell, I’m glad it was on me, too.” 

 

Trixie sniffed and stared at Birdie, who was still sitting on her feet. Her makeup was ruined for the second time that day. 

 

Katya looked at her earnestly. “Why don’t you talk to your Mama about this?”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Sure you can! Just tell her—“

 

“Katya, I  _ can’t _ ,” she hissed. She blinked ferociously to stifle her tears. “It’s not allowed in the house. Not around her at all. She just tries to pretend it didn’t happen.”

 

Katya frowned and looked towards the house. “That’s not fair,” she said dumbly. 

 

“Last time I did it, she almost kicked me out. Sincerely. I was being a little asshole about it, but I couldn’t…  _ help  _ it. It makes me just about crazy. I can’t talk to anyone about it.”

 

Katya offered a warm, formal smile. “You can always talk to me about it, Miss Trixie.”

 

Trixie screamed a high, unnatural laugh in response. “As if! I’m crazy. You’re gonna be out of here as soon as I turn my back.” She expected Katya to laugh, but Katya only gave her a tight lipped smile. 

 

“I’m really not. What kind of bitch would I be to do that? I’m not a runner.”

 

Trixie wiped her eyes. “Yeah? You sure seem to run from New York City.” She winced. There was no need to snap at Katya like that, especially when she had been nothing but kind to her. And who was she to assume Katya was running from something?

 

Katya’s eyes went wide, but this time it was  _ her  _ laugh that was unnatural. “Maybe. But I swear I’m not usually this…” She snapped her fingers, looking for the words. 

 

“Mysterious?” 

 

“I was gonna say cowardly, but I like that better.” They both laughed, which was really just a punched out exhale through their noses. Trixie was looking off towards the big, lonely house when she felt Katya wrap her pinky finger around hers. Trixie didn’t avert her gaze and focused more intensely on the house. She thought she saw her mother move past the kitchen window. Like a ghost.

 

She took a deep breath and decided to be a little daring. She clasped Katya’s entire hand within hers, lacing their fingers together and gripping tightly. Both of their hands were sweaty. Trixie hoped Katya couldn’t feel the drumming of her pulse against her wrist. 

 

“You wanna head back home?” Katya asked finally. 

 

“No. Now I’m pissed.”

 

“That’s fair. How about my place?”

 

Trixie snorted with laughter and looked at Katya, amused. “Katya, you live on my  _ property.”  _

 

“Does that mean that isn’t my place, Miss Trixie?”

 

“Ain’t you creeped out? Sleeping on a dead girl’s comforter?” Trixie asked bluntly, a smile playing at her lips. 

 

Katya grinned and squeezed Trixie’s hand. “Not as creeped out as I am by this fuckin’ thing.” She threw a look over her shoulder and shivered comically. “Heebie-Jeebie central!” 

  
  



	5. Troubled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAHOO DOUBLE UPDATE BABEY. also this one gets a lil risque but no fuckin sorry boys :/

_THE GINGER SNAP WAS A SMALL_ local bar that Willam frequented, and where she now sat with Trixie demurely at her side. It was decidedly put together for the little shack that it was. Scummy floorboards reeking of a number of egregious of fluids were instead clean, hand-done wooden flooring, as polished and neat as regular oak could get. Instead of upturned chairs and broken tables, there was a modest counter lined with a few cushy stools and a couple tables that, on special occasions, were dressed in frilly tablecloth. Hay lined the entrance into the dark room, which smelled pleasantly of sweetened alcohol and not-so-pleasantly of dusty farmers after a long day’s work in the sun. Trixie kicked at a peanut shell halfheartedly and swirled her rum and coke. A neon sign glimmered on the wall. Willam’s chatting was a pleasant drone in her ear, but did not punch through her sorrowful musings.

 

“... So I blew him, right? I wasn’t even… Hey!” She pinched Trixie’s wrist. “Are you listenin’ to me?”

 

“Yes,” Trixie lied. 

 

“I get you into a bar, I buy you a drink,” Willam listed these charities on her jeweled fingers. “And you won’t give me your fuckin’ time of day! Un-bee-LEE-vable.”

 

Trixie sighed and squirmed a little in her seat. “I told Katherine about Sherri.”

 

Willam seemed to sober up a little. “Jesus. Why?”

 

“She was fixin’ the baler and I threw a fit. Grabbed her by the collar and tossed her to the ground—“

 

“True shit!” Willam cried suddenly. “She’s done it! Ole Trinity Mardelle, welterweight champion of the world!” She grabbed Trixie’s free hand and raised it high in the hair, shaking it before Trixie swiftly brought it back down and slapped Willam’s thigh. “Yow! She’s a hard’un to beat, yessir!” 

 

“Willam, it’s not funny!” Trixie whined, hastily swallowing her beverage to conceal the smile playing at her lips—damn her. “I just started bawling like a baby. Sure as hell did. And I spilled everything. Hell, I spilled things I’ve never even told you!” She flared her nostrils in a heaving breath. 

 

“What’d she say?”

 

“Nothin’. Well, she consoled me. She tried to calm me down and said she wouldn’t think anything less of me.”

 

“So why are you losing sleep, candyass?!” Willam asked as she waved down the bartender. “Yes, another drink for the lady. Me! Not her, that’s a fuckin’ pig! Haw-Haw-Haw…” 

 

“But it was like…” Trixie paused and popped a leftover ice cube in her mouth, crunching it with her back teeth like a grizzled old rancher chewing his tobacco as he thought. “It was like she wanted to tell me something. But she didn’t say anything else.” 

 

“She was gonna tell you she likes you,” Willam explained mirthlessly; it was as if Trixie was so consistently dumb that she was no longer shocked and frustrated by it. “God, you’re a real pansy! Suck it up and tell her. If she’s not spooked by your sister, then hey, she isn’t fazed by much.”

 

Trixie watched as a shiny red convertible zoomed down a distant road and hummed. “Maybe. She seems 

 

—

 

_ tough enough?”  _

 

_ Katya was picking dirt from the crevices in her boot with her knife listlessly, slumped back on her leather sofa and tapping on her thigh. She looked up and blinked dumbly. “Huh?”  _

 

_ “I said, do you think you’re tough enough?” Violet repeated. She twisted a coil of shiny black hair around her gloved finger and smiled, straddling the other young woman and swiping her thumb over her lips.  _

 

_ Katya took a moment before scoffing coolly and rolling her eyes. “Of course I am, you whore,” she replied with a smooth, low tone. “It’s your everyday score. Done it a thousand times. You don’t think I’ve gone soft or nothin’, do you?”  _

 

_ “No,” Violet replied slowly. She was playful, but nervous. “But it’s a big deal. You know that  _ they  _ are a big deal. The fact we even scored with ‘em—Good God, girl, I never would have imagined…” _

 

_ “Well, in case you forgot,  _ I’m  _ a big deal, too,” Katya teased. _

 

_ Violet giggled and pressed her nose into the blonde’s neck, her breathy laughs against Katya’s warm skin. “Don’t get cocky, Tiny,” she warned with the accompanying, affectionate nickname Katya so thoroughly hated. Then, after a solemn pause, “You better not let me down.”  _

 

_ “Have I ever?”  Katya hummed contentedly as Violet started to drag her painted lips across her neck, kissing at her heated skin.  _

 

_ Then, the knife was being slipped out of her hand by Violet and lifted up to her chin. Katya glanced up with an easy smile, and something flickered behind her black eyes for a moment before being replaced by a lighthearted whimsy. “I’m just waiting for it, Lovergirl.” _

 

_ “Well, keep waiting.” _

 

_ Violet tossed the knife to the floor with a loud, angry clatter, the handle bouncing with a few thuds. Katya gasped with horror and attempted to bend down and reach for it. “You absolute bitch!”  _

 

_ “At least I didn’t stab you,” Violet murmured, pushing Katya back up against the leather cushioning, holding her there and grinning with gross confidence.  _

 

_ “Yeah,” Katya chuckled and started pulling at Violet’s garters. “At least.” _

 

_ — _

 

“Hey!” A man donned in a straw hat and tattered overalls suddenly burst into the bar, sweat dripping down his forehead and his chest heaving. His eyes were blown up wide and darting around the dark room. “Y’all gotta see this!”

 

“Bob, what the hell is your problem?” The bartender, an older, pudgier woman with streaky red hair that fell in waves around her shoulders asked tonelessly. She tapped her lacquered nails onto the scrubbed wooden bar, communicating with everything but words that he better buy something or not make such a fuss. 

 

“Eureka’s shop! Holy shit, man, I think somebody’s robbin’—“ Suddenly, two rounds from a gun went off nearby (though oddly quiet), in quick succession, and Trixie heard herself gasp. Bob clasped his hands behind his head and ducked inside. Trixie dove under a table, not really noticing or caring if Willam did either. She covered her ears as four more shots went off, with spacing in between each except the last two. One made a wicked  _ p-chew!  _ as it ricocheted off of something metal, like the sound in a Spaghetti Western. Another shattered glass (a window?). Then there were whoops and tires screeching, and the town fell dead silent again. It was over as soon as it started. 

 

“Trixie?” Bob called. Trixie was still cowering under the table when Bob reached out for her. She took his roughened hand and allowed herself to be pulled back to a standing position, but her legs were wobbling dangerously. Chewing gum was matted in her hair and her knees were slightly scraped. The hem of her dress was soaked in booze. She glanced around  _ (get ahold of yourself, Beatrice) _ and found the entire bar was empty, and upon looking out the door glimpsed a crowd gathering at Eureka O’Hara’s fabric shop. Willam was still inside, but her face was unnaturally pale. She was looking at Trixie with a sort of fearsome worry and rubbing her elbows. 

 

Bob put two hands on Trixie’s shoulders, clasping them roughly until her eyes met his. She was certain he was about to scold (or beat) the living piss out of her for being in the bar, but he simply said, “Hey, you okay?” Trixie opened her mouth to assure him she was fine, but instead she choked on her words and stopped short, blinking hard and tilting her head back. Bob tutted and pulled Trixie close to him. “Hey.  _ Hey _ . You’re fine. You just got spooked, that’s all. Everyone did! Ole Jinx wet her fuckin’ skirt, I’m sure!” He clapped Trixie roughly on the back as she pulled away. “Walk it off, kid. Walk it off.” That was Bob. Loving, yet stern. 

 

“Jesus. Who did it?” Willam asked, an arm already wrapped protectively around Trixie’s waist (and perhaps for her own comfort, but she would never admit that). “You saw it, didn’t you? What lunatic in  _ this  _ town would do that? Don’t they know everybody knows everyone?”

 

Bob opened his mouth to speak and suddenly closed it. He adjusted his hat by the brim, and the expression on his face perfectly mirrored that of Katya’s three days prior when she was trying to console Trixie; pitiful and held back by an invisible force. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “They had on masks.” 

 

In fact, they had on very strange masks, O’hara later lamented to the grizzled police reporter, Jaymes Mansfield. “They weren’t pantyhose, y’know? They were actual masks. White plastic ones. And they had some kind of…  _ doll _ face painted on.” Jaymes inquired what they looked like exactly. “Aw, hell,  _ I  _ don’t know! They were weird! Giant pink lips. Eyelashes. Blush, like a clown or something. And they were all frowning, mad looking, you know? Except one. One of ‘em was smiling. The one that tried ‘n shoot me.” 

 

As Bob led Trixie from the bar, shielding her under his wing, Trixie’s very own yellow pickup came skidding down the street, swerving to park near the bar. Bob kept going, shoving Trixie along to get her past the worrying scene, but Willam (who was lagging behind) started to call, “Hey! It’s Katherine!” 

 

“Who?” Bob asked. Trixie was immediately trying to stop walking and push against Bob’s strong arm with her back, digging her heels into the dirt. 

 

“Lemme go!” she pleaded. “It’s Katya!” Bob stopped dead in his tracks, but his grip on Trixie remained firm. He swung them both around. Katya was hopping out of the truck, slamming the door and jogging ( _ sprinting _ , really) towards them. She slowed down once she was close, out of breath. Her hair was frazzled and she had unbuttoned the top three buttons of her shirt. 

 

“Trixie,” she panted, taking the tall blonde girl in, grabbing her hands and examining her all over, as if there were going to be neat little bullet holes in her chest she had simply missed. “Are you okay? I heard the shots while I was at the supply store. Jesus, what happened?”

 

Bob looked gravely into Katya’s wide, nervous eyes. Katya caught them and her anxious expression twisted into one of dumbfounded horror, and then her jaw clenched and she swallowed thickly and let Bob lead her by the hand towards the side of the bar. “Go home, now,” he said. “I just gotta talk to her.” He gave a weary smile, like it was painted on a scowl, and Trixie thought she might scream. 

 

“C’mon, Trixie,” Willam whispered, for once realizing the seriousness of the situation. “Let’s go.”

 

“No,” Willam started to pull Trixie away, and Trixie yanked her arm back sharply. “Stop it! Everyone stop shoving me around.” Katya was looking worriedly over her shoulder as Bob talked to her, still leading her away. 

 

Willam let go as soon as Trixie yanked away and started to march towards Katya and Bob. “Aw, hell,” she muttered, adjusting her tube top. “I ain’t got the fuckin’ time for this. Trixie!”

 

Trixie did not hear her. She bunched her hands into fists and stood firmly, chewing her bottom lip. Bob looked at Trixie like he was about to speak, explain something to her gently, as if she were stupid, or an animal. Trixie cut him off sharply. 

 

“We’re going home.”

 

“Trixie, I need to—“

 

“No!” Trixie was being unreasonable, and she knew it. “We’re going  _ home!”  _

 

Katya looked at Bob with furrowed eyebrows. “Just five minutes,” Bob pleaded. 

 

“No! She’s  _ my  _ farmhand and we’re going! It’s not important!” Trixie was able to see herself from outside, see the word vomit building in her throat, but she couldn’t stifle it. What the fuck was her issue lately? She reached pleadingly towards Katya. 

 

Katya raised her hands instinctively to grab Trixie, but she hesitated, looking nervously back at Bob. Bob seemed a little nervous, too—he hadn’t seen such a grown girl act like such a little kid, especially one only a couple inches shorter than him. Truthfully, he seemed concerned she may try to hit him, but not for himself, solely for Trixie and the black eye she’d be sporting if she did.

 

“You need to cut this shit out _.  _ What are you trying to pull? I  _ know  _ your Mama taught you better.”

  
  


“She’s  _ mine!”  _ Trixie cried suddenly, boldly. She was stomping and grabbing Katya’s hand tight. She looked like a giant toddler throwing a fit, like Peggy when Margaret pulled her hair or Michael threatened her with the BB gun and Trixie, ever calm and responsible, would stop her. But now she was the one throwing the fit, blowing a gasket, boiling over. All that shit. “She’s mine, goddammit! We have to go home! She works for me, not you, you don’t get a damn say! She is  _ mine!”  _

 

Katya looked at Trixie, then at Bob, then at Trixie again. “Bob,” she mumbled with a nervous shrug. “I… I really oughta go with her. Look at her. She’s hysterical.” 

 

Bob looked incredulously at Katya.  _ Really?  _ his eyes said,  _ This is what you’re gonna do? _

 

Katya sighed and knitted her eyebrows together in a desperate,  _ I’m sorry, no choice.  _

 

Bob huffed and placed his hat back on his head again, touching the brim. “Damn right she is. Be lucky if I don’t tell her Mama. Yes ma’am.”

 

“Bob.”

 

Bob sighed resignedly. “Fine!” he exclaimed, hands up. “I give up. But I  _ need  _ to talk to you, Katya. Sincerely.” He eyed both of them; a hysterical young woman clinging to her dirty, sweaty farmhand like she was the messiah. “I’ll be seein’ you.” With that, he turned and started towards the crowd. 

 

Katya blew out a breath and finally squeezed Trixie’s hand in return, as Trixie had been squeezing hers in a desperate grip for a good minute. “Come on, now,” she said. Unlike both previous attempts to lead her away, Trixie now followed docilely, like a lamb being led by her shepherd. 

 

They walked past a dumbfounded Willam, who simply said, “Who’s Katya?” Katya groaned and continued on. “Hey, guys! Fuckin’ wait up!”

 

—

 

“Alright, ladies, make yourselves at home,” Willam said with a sigh as she led them into her apartment, a rather large complex that was in Mirefield, which they had driven an hour to reach. Mirefield was a genuine city, and where Willam spent most of her time, but Willam also claimed there were “plenty of dirty fucks” to solicit her services in Sudbury. Trixie was doubtful, but now she couldn’t be more grateful that Willam had been there with her. Trixie refused to go back home, boozed and dirty and still somewhat nutty. She had offered to take Katya home first, but Katya insisted she wouldn’t let them drive there alone. It was her day off, anyway. 

 

“Nice place,” Katya said slowly. Expensive clothes and shoes littered a corner of the living room. There were condoms on the coffee table. 

 

“Thaanks! I didn’t clean up. Wasn’t expecting company.”

 

“It’s still pretty clean.”

 

“That’s ‘cause I’m a whore, remember?” Willam replied with a toothy grin. She glided over to the pile of clothes, sniffed a shirt, and shrugged before tossing it over her forearm. “Which reminds me, I have to go to work!”

 

“Now?” Trixie asked. “But don’t you usually go out later?”

 

“Y’all make yourselves comfortable, now! Mi casa es tu casa. Trixie, you can change into some of my clothes.” She winked. “I got lotsa cute things. Buh-bye!” With a waggle of her fingers, Willam was gone. She didn’t even change into the shirt she picked up before scrambling out the door. 

 

Now, Trixie and Katya were standing side by side, stiff, and staring stupidly at the entrance. Katya’s hand twitched, and then she clapped both hands together. “Alright, sit down. Let’s clean you up.” 

  
  


Trixie wrinkled her nose as Katya started to slather peanut butter into her gum-matted hair. She was sitting on the floor in front of the shorter woman, squarely in between Katya’s knees Katya was sitting on the sofa, for Trixie was far too tall to do it efficiently any other way. But Trixie felt her skin burn up whenever her arm brushed against Katya’s calf, like she was going to combust.  _ Ashes, ashes, we all fall down _ , she thought for no discernable reason.

 

“This is so fuckin’ gross,” Trixie hissed. “I hate people messing my hair. And with  _ peanut butter!”  _ She brayed a high, disgusted squeal and covered her face with the back of her hand.

 

“Oh, Jesus wept. Do you want gum in it instead?” Katya asked, sighing. “This is the only way to get it out!” Her fingers brushed against Trixie’s scalp, caught in a tangle, and yanked. “My bad.” Trixie full-body shivered, her head tilted back slightly before Katya gently pulled the knot apart. They were silent for awhile, Katya working it into her hair (There must have been at least three wads of gum stuck in it. So much for a clean bar), the only sound their breathing and the occasional shift against each other, denim against skin. 

 

“There. Now we’ll let that sit, and then you can go wash it out in the shower.” Katya wiped her hands on a handkerchief, but not before licking at least some of it off. 

 

“Gross!” Trixie cried. She whipped her head around and made a face up at Katya where she scrunched up her nose and pouted. Katya stuck her tongue out and squinted in dignified response. Trixie’s eyes drifted down to her own eye-level, and she felt her stomach explode into a million, burning hot butterflies--or beetles, maybe. Crawling and scratching down her gut, overloading nerves, leaving her almost incapacitated. She was bluntly reminded of the fact she was right between Katya’s splayed legs, her jeans stretching across her crotch and her shirt having been untucked slightly. Trixie could see the marks where Katya’s belt dug into her skin and rubbed it raw (since she refused to wear one that would actually fit her). She went slack jawed before turning back around quickly and as casually as possible. 

 

“Bite me,” Katya said, seemingly innocent. “You’re the one with it in your hair!” Trixie giggled too loudly. Katya leaned back on the sofa, making no move to sit somewhere else. Trixie didn’t, either. 

 

Then, after a moment; “‘Mine’, huh?”

 

“What?”

 

“You called me yours,” Katya explained. “That I worked for  _ you _ .” 

 

Trixie looked mortified, gazing over her shoulder and touching Katya’s knee. “No, I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like  _ that,”  _ she said quickly. “I was just—I wasn’t in the right state. I was just trying to say that…” she faltered. What had she been trying to say? “I just… I wanted you to come with me. I hate secrets,” she said finally, as if that explained anything. 

 

“Mm,” Katya hummed. She sighed and pulled a cigarette from her back pocket, lifting her hips slightly and making Trixie’s head pound behind her eyes before she settled back down and lit it. 

 

“Are you mad at me?” Trixie blurted. 

 

“What? No way!” Katya assured, smoke flowing from her lips. “Didn’t I say that? I’m a hard one to make mad, baby.”

 

Trixie chewed her lip.  _ Baby.  _ “You didn’t mention it.”

 

“Well, now you know.” 

 

More silence. Willam’s clock ticked. Trixie’s stomach was so hot she felt feverish. 

 

“That’s two minutes,” Katya said finally. “Should be enough.”

 

Trixie wanted to get up as quickly as possible, and she also wanted to stay right where she was. She wanted to flee from Katya and she wanted to be so close to her she couldn’t breathe. After a beat, Trixie stood up onto shaky knees, like a childish colt taking its first steps. The cap for the peanut butter jar had rolled onto the floor and now laid a few inches in front of her. 

 

“Op,” Trixie murmured in true midwestern fashion. She bent down, the hem of her dress swishing against the backs of her knees. She splayed her legs slightly to bend over easier (all with her back, not at all crouching) and Katya’s legs suddenly clenched around her, then released just as quickly. Trixie was upright and spinning to hand the cap to Katya. “Dropped it.” Katya’s mouth was slightly open, her eyes bemused and happily surprised. Trixie smiled cheekily and walked towards the bathroom, a little extra swing in her step. 

 

\--

 

Trixie was trying to pop a pimple on her chin, but the fog of the mirror in the steamy room made it impossible to see. She had finished her shower, and hated to admit that the peanut butter took the gum out of her hair like it was nothing. However, she would most likely say that was the reason she had been in the shower for a good thirty minutes, and not because of the far dirtier and embarrassing reality.  _ Willam wouldn’t care, would she?  _ Trixie thought as she peeled herself away from the moist tile wall where she had been leaning and started scrubbing her skin furiously.  _ She’s a whore, after all. If you swabbed this place with a Q-Tip and shoved it up there, you’d probably get pregnant.  _ She had laughed at that and stored the quip in her mental arsenal to use against her friend. 

 

Trixie had given up and now stared into the foggy, blurred image of herself. She was just a peach-colored blob with a blue towel on her head, and she smiled (the reflection suddenly procured a white blob in the midst of the blurry peach). Condensation gathered on her image’s cheek and slid down. Trixie smiled and felt possessed to write on the mirror, something she never did at home for fearing ruining the glass. 

  
  


_ Pretty woman, won’t you pardon me? _

_ Pretty woman, I couldn’t help but see _

_ Pretty woman, that you look lovely as can be _

 

Trixie was already running out of room on the mirror, so she scribbled the last sentence in the corner.

 

_ Are you lonely just like me? _

 

—

 

“Jesus, Willam,” Trixie hissed. She was now standing in Willam’s room, which was grossly hippie-ish and even more disgustingly cluttered, trying desperately to fit into one of her itty bitty miniskirts. Her own familiar gingham dress reeked of booze, and Trixie would need to wash it plenty to get the smell out, so she was desperate. She looked fruitlessly for any kind of modest ensemble, digging through hampers and drawers until the room looked like it had been robbed, but to no avail. Trixie planned to ask if Willam had ever been in a formal setting her entire life. The best (and cleanest) thing she found was a white miniskirt, exceptionally modern and ridiculously short. Trixie was so tall that the hem barely covered her ass, and it hugged her thighs uncomfortably. She sighed—at least the waistband was elastic and not a zipper. Willam was a twig. 

 

Which presented Trixie with another problem—a shirt. There was, Trixie thought, absolutely no way her teensy tube tops and v-neck blouses would fit comfortably around her stomach and bust, and looking honestly made her feel a little insecure. But, miraculously, Trixie found a fuzzy, off-the-shoulder blue sweater that seemed loose enough to fit her. It was loose enough to fit, but still much tighter than Trixie was exactly comfortable with. Her white bra was clearly visible. She sighed and tried to stretch it a bit. As she gazed at herself in the mirror, she felt a selfish rush of excitement she only sometimes got when unknowing men told her she was pretty or she sat on her church bench and could see the tip of her nylons peek out from under her dress. The clothes were somehow even more provocative than if she was just naked. It was like things were just  _ barely  _ hidden, and everyone wanted to see them, even though they would know just as well as her what was there. Trixie smiled and flitted the skirt between her fingers. She turned to her side and arched her back in a proud pose, licking her teeth with the tip of her tongue in a clumsy impersonation of Willam, the only model she had for her own sex appeal. She swayed side to side with her hands on her hips and shuffled her feet. “I guess I see why she likes it,” she whispered. 

 

Any shred of confidence she had while she was alone, though, vanished through the floor as soon as she stepped into the hallway and glimpsed Katya, still sitting on the couch, now with a mug of coffee in her hand. She sipped it idly as she watched a re-airing of  _ The Addams Family  _ on the T.V. One boot-clad ankle rested on her opposite knee, and she was leaning back peacefully. Trixie felt like her legs were melting into the floor—what was Katya going to think? Was it trashy? Well, it was definitely trashy, but could Katya appreciate it? Didn’t she know Trixie had no other choice? It didn’t help that Trixie had masturbated to the thought of Katya just minutes ago in the shower, which at the time seemed like a good idea, but now filled her with a gut-wrenching sense of guilt. Could she  _ know? _

 

Katya looked around and caught sight of Trixie. “Oh! Finally done with your show—” She cleared her throat. “Shower.”

 

Trixie tried to pull down her skirt. “Y-Yeah.” Then, she smiled sheepishly and started apologizing. “These clothes sure are stupid, huh? You shoulda seen what else she had. She dresses in  _ children’s  _ sizes, I swear. And the patterns are so tacky. It looks awful.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Katya said with a shrug, as if she didn’t really care. But her eyes were lidded and boring straight through the thin fabric. “I think you look smokin’!”

 

_ Fuck.  _ “Really?”

 

“Mm-hm,” Katya hummed. She patted the couch next to her. “Come on, you wanna watch? I made some coffee, I hope Willam doesn’t mind.”

 

“I’m sure she won’t.” Trixie began one of the large strides she was used to, and the skirt almost instantly slid up her thighs. Katya wasn’t looking at her, which simultaneously relieved and infuriated Trixie. She slid the skirt back down and adjusted her steps to be more petite. 

 

Once sitting down, Katya had scooted over so they were shoulder to shoulder. She chuckled as Morticia Addams cut the flowers off of her rose garden, leaving just the thorns. “Man, I always loved this show,” she said, resting her hand casually on Trixie’s knee. “Too bad it stopped airing, huh?”

 

Trixie sat up straighter. “I was never allowed to watch it.”

 

“Really? How come?”

 

“Bad family values, says my stepdad,” Trixie said quietly. “Sexual. Deviant. Satanic, even.”

 

Katya laughed and looked incredulously at Trixie. “Man! Your family don’t seem  _ that  _ prudish. Now I’m even more scared of your old man.” She paused, then smirked. “I always thought Morticia was a fox. What do you think?”

 

Trixie’s breath hitched, and she was sitting so still it was killing her. The entire time Trixie and Katya had interacted (which was, to be fair, a very short time), Katya was mildly flirtatious at best, and downright shy at other times. Now, though, her voice was low and confident and Trixie was starting to sweat. 

 

“Not my type,” she squeaked. When she finally peeled her eyes away from the television, Katya was looking right at her, a deviant smile stretching across her red lips and her lashes somewhat hiding her hazy gray eyes. Then, she turned casually away from Trixie and moved her hand away. Trixie ground her teeth. The audacity! 

 

Trixie finally wriggled a little. She decided to be daring, and began tracing over Katya’s clothed shoulders. “What’s with your tattoos, huh?” she asked, attempting to sound as demure as possible. 

 

“Oh,” Katya replied, still not looking at her. “Just some that I got in New York. You know, getting drunk and doing something stupid.”

 

“They’re  _ illegal _ ,” Trixie added smugly. Katya finally glanced at her, awe on her face. “How’d you accidentally do something illegal?”

 

“Aw, are you gonna get me in trouble, baby?” she cooed. Just as Trixie thought she had the upper hand, Katya had yanked the rug out from under her again with a pout and cocked eyebrow. She must have seen Trixie twitch, because before she turned away she bit down on her cheek to suppress a smug grin. 

 

“No!” Trixie gripped Katya’s arm, desperate for attention. She couldn’t pretend she was as good at Katya’s cool game for much longer. “I—No. No, I would never.”

 

“Good,” Katya said smoothly. She acted as if she hadn’t heard Trixie’s response at all. Trixie whimpered silently and wriggled again.

 

Minutes of silence between them passed. Trixie wanted Katya to do  _ anything.  _ Say something, touch her arm, even  _ look  _ at her. But Katya seemed to not notice she was there at all, and Trixie was getting impatient. 

 

“When I was shirtless that day,” Katya began with casual ease, the same tone one uses to ask about the weather; the words were like a blow to Trixie’s stomach. “What did you think?”

 

“Wha?” 

 

Katya was staring straight ahead, but something told Trixie she wasn’t paying attention to  _ The Addams Family  _ at all. She had full attention somewhere else. “Did you like what you saw?”

 

Trixie’s stomach flipped. She had wanted Katya to say or do something, but now the direct confrontation felt entirely too much. She nodded curtly, but Katya wasn’t looking her. On purpose, she finally realized. Trixie resigned her dignity much quicker than she was proud of with a sigh and said her thoughts aloud, still gripping Katya’s muscular bicep. 

 

“Yes,” she managed. Her face was on fire, but Katya still wasn’t reacting. “Damn it, yeah, I really did.”

 

Katya smiled, but that was it. She still wouldn’t spare Trixie a glance. “Well, well. I thought so, but I would have never believed it..." she pouted and ruffled Trixie's damp hair, which Trixie could have killed her for had her stomach not been so fluttery. "And you couldn't do a thing about it."

 

Trixie was visibly breathing hard, hands wringing in her lap; she was finally cracking under the pressure Katya had been building for  _ days _ . She wrapped her arms around Katya’s shoulders without thinking, swinging one leg over the blonde’s lap and pulling herself close to Katya’s ear. She kissed her jaw timidly and felt grateful Katya couldn’t see her face. 

 

“Katya,” she whispered. “I-I did want you so bad, okay? But I couldn’t do a damn thing, you’re right. But you were so—I’ve never felt like that, looking at someone. I was so hot all over, Katya, I couldn’t breathe. Sincerely. Oh, Jesus, I thought about it for days. I still think about it.  _ Katya.”  _ She couldn’t stop saying her name. It was like ice on her hot skin. And it was true, what she said about what she felt. She knew she liked girls, but she had never _really_ _liked_ one. And it wasn't just how hot she was; that was part of it, surely, a _huge_ part. But there was something else--

 

Her head was swirling, shouting at her,  _ What am I saying? What am I doing? Screw it. Screw it to hell.  _

 

Katya was stiff for a moment, and Trixie felt a cold wave of regret, but she burst into life with an eager spryness Trixie did not expect. She grabbed Trixie’s waist and pulled her onto her lap, the tiny skirt bunching around Trixie’s stomach. Trixie’s eyes fluttered closed, and Katya was pulling her close by the back of her neck and then she was kissing her.

 

_ (Trixie, don’t you dare do a thing like that again!) _

 

Her tongue pushed its way into Trixie’s mouth, forcing it to open all the way, licking around her tongue and teeth. Had the gesture not been eagerly awaited, Trixie would have thought it was pretty gross. She whimpered as Katya’s hands travelled down her sides and rested on the seat of the skirt, digging her blunt fingernails into Trixie’s soft flesh. Katya moved like she had done all of this a million times, as if she had taken Trixie to bed like this every day for years. She was so good at it that it both pleased and intimidated Trixie.  _ How many other women—?  _ No, she couldn’t think about that, not when Katya was sucking on her bottom lip and writhing under her. Katya’s strong, rough hands against her skin were the only thing that mattered now, tomorrow, yesterday—maybe forever. 

 

Trixie’s hands clumsily clawed down Katya’s shirt, and Trixie remembered how utterly and embarrassingly inexperienced she was. Katya pulled away from her lips and started to bite at the burning skin of her collarbones. She, with her array of expertise, bit a sensitive spot. Trixie whined meekly, arching and giggling, but was suddenly troubled by how much she was enjoying this. 

 

“Oh, God,” she whispered, her voice wavering. 

 

“‘Oh, God’?” Katya mumbled, a puzzled uptick in her tone. 

 

Trixie gathered herself. The Troubled Thoughts were faint again. “Yeah,” she sighed as Katya dragged her lips up her neck, bunching Katya’s shirt up in her hands until her fingers cramped. “I-In the good way.” 

 

Trixie started unbuttoning Katya’s shirt with fervor, and didn’t even finish before putting her hands on Katya’s abdomen. Feeling the blonde’s hot, sweaty skin under her made her ears buzz. She saw Katya’s red bra and wanted to take it off, to take everything off; but she didn’t dare go further. Something wouldn’t let her. Those Troubled Thoughts. So she just listened to Katya groan softly into her mouth whenever she scraped down her chest or sides and closed her eyes to focus on the feeling of Katya’s hips rolling slowly against hers. It was so dirty, and everything that had buried the Not Troubled Thoughts deep down in her mind was  _ screaming  _ that she hated it, but she couldn’t stop. How could  _ anything  _ be better than kissing girls?

 

She slid one hand down to steady herself so she wouldn’t slip off of Katya’s lap and was surprised when denim turned into lace and the metal of Katya’s zipper surrounded her palm. 

 

“Your zipper,” Trixie gasped stupidly. She ripped her hand away for a moment while staring down at the open zipper before back up at Katya, whose lipstick was smeared all over her chin (and, presumably, Trixie’s).

 

She hissed a breath through her teeth as Katya pinched the skin of her thigh and giggled at Trixie's innocent bewilderment. “Yeah,” Katya sighed, licking her lips, contemplative and daring. “You wanna know something? Something a little dirty? Geez, I’m too embarrassed to say if you look at me like _that…”_ She smirked—she knew she was taunting Trixie into fucking oblivion. She knew she had been doing it the whole time. She got suffocatingly close to Trixie, her breath burning up her heated skin. “You got me so fuckin’ hot earlier, Trixie. You’re such a fucking tease and you don’t even _realize_ it, that’s what kills me! And when you went in the shower, thinkin’ about _that_ drove me nuts, too. I couldn’t stand it. So I—“

  
“Hiii, fuckers!” The front door slammed open with a thud and sent shafts of bright sunlight cascading over Trixie and Katya, momentarily blinding them. Willam was smiling a toothy, confident grin and toting a man behind her by his tie. “How’d you— _ Oh.” _


	6. Vipers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE BLOOD DRAINED OUT OF Trixie’s face worryingly fast. She was frozen in place, one hand around Katya’s bare torso and the other palming her zipper. Her reaction was far more akin to being caught in the midst of a bloody murder by police with snarling guard dogs and loaded guns than being caught tonguing a friend by a hooker and her client.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI ALL! i feel like its been fuckin forever since ive updated but im back with another HOT N FRESH chapter! this one is sort of a collection of a lot of different, somewhat correlated scenes. i've gotten SO much support recently and i am just tickled over it so thank you! for all new readers, i wanna remind you i have both a spotify playlist AND a pinterest board in the after chapter notes for this fic that are being continually updated, so you can peruse those in between updates! happy reading!

_THE BLOOD DRAINED OUT OF_ Trixie’s face worryingly fast. She was frozen in place, one hand around Katya’s bare torso and the other palming her zipper. Her reaction was far more akin to being caught in the midst of a bloody murder by police with snarling guard dogs and loaded guns than being caught tonguing a friend by a hooker and her client.

 

“Oh, groovy!” The man behind Willam exclaimed. Katya was looking at him with pallid anger. It was sexy. “We gonna fuck them, too?”

 

“No!” Willam hissed. She threw an extremely apologetic look towards the two women and dragged the man towards her bedroom. “So sorry, don’t mind us, go on!”

 

But the scene had been utterly ruined. What was before so attractive--Katya kissing her, Katya touching her, _Katya--_ was now something out of a nightmare. Trixie whimpered and looked at Katya quizzically, like the woman who she straddled was unrecognizable. She averted her eyes. She couldn’t stand to look at her farmhand turned friend turned--?

 

The _piece de resistance,_ Trixie realized with further panic and terror, a _man_ had seen her. A strange man, a no-good hooker-hirin’ man. Seen her skirt bunched around her waist, kissing, letting herself go and doing so with gusto. He saw it all. _Oh, groovy!_

 

Katya attempted to take Trixie by the waist again, and Trixie flinched, whining without sound. Katya retracted her hand, wincing.

 

“We should go huh-ome,” Trixie squeaked as she scrambled off of Katya’s muscular thighs. Katya moved to help Trixie off, and Trixie jumped backward, gripping Katya’s thigh as she almost teetered off. Hard. Katya hissed and jerked her knee up, hitting Trixie’s tailbone, making her yelp.

 

“Oh!”

 

“You okay, Miss Trixie?” A shift in the air. That formal atmosphere was between them. Katya watched Trixie nod and rub her tailbone as she stood up and then began buttoning her own shirt back up. Trixie found herself strangely wanting to cry

 

The car ride home was completely uneventful. There was no teasing, no loud radio or banging on the dashboard. No racing coyotes. They just sat in their seats, Katya focused on the road, both lean hands on the wheel. Trixie still wanted to cry. She crumpled herself against the side of the door and rested her head on the window, tufts of fluffy hair hiding her face and giving her cushion. Her stomach kept flipping queasily, and she, at one point, almost told Katya to pull over so she could vomit.

Trixie thought of her mother. Her with that lightbulb halo around her head, screaming at her small daughter, pleading with her. She had, when it really happened, sound mostly frightened and minimally angry. But that was transforming as Trixie replayed the scene over and over, replayed the horror with sick fascination. Her mother’s pitiful pleas transform into snarls and screeches

 

_(like the monster the haybaler monster)_

 

and force Trixie to cower. She is her own age now, nineteen, and instead of Pearl pressed into the corner of the bare quarters with only plastic house furniture, it was Katya inside the room Trixie had so lovingly decorated. _“Dyke! Filthy dirty damned dyke!”_ Her mother hits her in the back of the head.

 

_(stop being such a fucking baby!)_

 

She throws Trixie in the street. Katya disappears. Nobody will take Trixie in. She dies.

 

None of that made sense, and Trixie knew it. She just kept jumping to the worst possible conclusions, the most horrifying she could think of, her heart thumping with gross excitement. But they weren’t likely, no, not at all. Nobody knew, except Willam ( _What about the guy? Did I know him? No, I don’t think so)._ Trixie was free as a bird. But she was certain that something was going to happen because of it, that God would decide her luck had run out and strike her down. Dusty’s voice rang in her head, _That would be something, wouldn’t it?_

 

When they arrived at the house, Trixie didn’t notice. She sat miserably, stewing in her thoughts, eyes screwed shut against the mean world. The warm, rumbling truck went still beneath her, and she heard crunching footsteps, somewhere distant. Then, the door opened, and Katya was tutting sadly at her.  

 

“Big day. Poor honey.”

 

Trixie remained frozen, yet wide awake. When Katya reached underneath her, she almost tried to break away in her miserable disgust. But Katya simply slipped one arm under Trixie’s knees and the other supported her back, carrying her with ease. Trixie instinctively wrapped her arms around Katya’s neck.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Katya jumped, startled. “I-I thought you were asleep,” she explained hastily. “I was gonna carry you in.”

 

“That’s okay,” Trixie murmured. Katya set her back down gingerly. They stared at eachother for a moment, both of their faces equally unable to read, especially in the washy light of the half-moon.

 

“Well,” Trixie inhaled sharply. “Goodnight!”

 

She turned, but Katya caught her by the hand. “Hey, wait!” She frowned deeply, and Trixie felt her heart clench. “Do you wanna come inside? Just for a minute?”

 

 _She’s gonna jump your bones, dyke._ “No, thanks.”

 

Katya sighed and wrapped her arms around Trixie’s middle in a tight hug. Trixie felt sick.

 

“Okay,” she said. “Goodnight, sweetheart.” Trixie could have guffawed at the unabashed tenderness had she not been so stunned. Katya stood on her tiptoes to press a kiss to Trixie’s cheek and offered a small smile.

 

Trixie knew if she didn’t get out of there _now_ , she wasn’t going to be able to leave at all. She would dreamily follow Katya into her cozy room, into her warm bed, and stay there forever. So she left. But before she did, despite the fact everything in her was _screaming_ for her not to, she bent down and kissed the corner of Katya’s mouth before shuffling shamefully back inside her lonely home.

 

—

 

“Terrible shame, what happened to Eureka’s shop,” Martha sighed. The topic had been almost the sole subject of discussion for almost all of Sudbury, word of what happened spreading

 

_(rumors spread in a small town like this, Sue, I know it’s different up there in Milwaukee)_

 

to the entire populous within hours.

 

“Eh, it’s a little excitement,” Trixie’s stepfather offered with a shrug. He was not often present at breakfast, lunch, or dinner, spending almost all of his time holed up in his tiny office and letting Martha clean up after him. He could stay there, for all Trixie cared. She didn’t despise the man—not as much as her real father—but he certainly hadn’t fulfilled a fatherly role in her life. She called him by his name; Mike, who her younger brother had been so lovingly named after, cursing him to an eternity of trying to live up to his father.

 

That was one good thing that came of her stepfather, at the very least; her siblings. They were hardly blood related, but Trixie would live and die for them. She felt more towards them than she ever did towards Cherry, which was a bit upsetting, but it made perfect sense. Cherry died when Trixie was only four, still just a toddler unable to form complicated sentences. There was no way a meaningful relationship could have been built (and thus, it wasn’t broken by her death).

 

“Damn right!” Michael cried. Martha gently scolded his swearing, but he continued on. “Man, I wish I coulda seen it! And if I had my gun with me? Aw, man, those robbers would be toast!” He aimed an imaginary rifle, one hand on its forearm and the other on the trigger, screwing one eye shut and carefully taking aim between Trixie’s eyes. He pulled the imaginary trigger. _“Pow!”_

 

“No, you don’t,” Trixie said calmly, but she had averted her eyes. “It was scary. That stuff never happens here. Everybody’s talking about gettin’ guns for their stores.”

 

“Sounds fair to me,” Mike said. “A man oughta protect his property.”

 

Trixie rolled her eyes. “That isn’t the point.”

 

“Beatrice.” her mother was looking at her with that _cut the shit or else_ glare. Trixie huffed and took a bite of toast, chewing with her mouth open.

 

The robbery was, in truth, not why she was so irritable and queasy. She had nearly forgotten about it, and didn’t care how or why or what exactly happened (except for what Bob wanted to tell Katya. What did he want to tell her so badly?). She was still haunted by the night before. The guilt was killing her, and she didn’t know why. She had done plenty against her parents’ will and hardly felt the urge to tell them. But at this moment, she was one more creeping memory of Katya’s hands on her skin from blurting it out in front of the whole table. _I TRIED TO FUCK THE FARMHAND!_ She shoveled her eggs and toast into her mouth to keep it shut, much to the distaste of her mother, and as soon as she swept the last bit of egg into her mouth she said, “May I be ex-shused?”

 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

 

A swallow. “May I be excused?”

 

“You may.”

 

Trixie swore she heard Mike say “Good riddance,” but she didn’t care. She calmly stood up and took her dish to the sink _(remember when Katya did the dishes and you touched her hand?)_ before speeding out the door. She strode up to Katya’s quarters and rapped her fist on the splintered door. Birds twittered noisily above her. A dog barked. Peggy whined about something inside the house. The air was still and hot.

 

“Trixie!” Katya’s voice came soaring across the flat earth, distant and dream-like, or like when Trixie had fallen down a tree at school in the 3rd grade and, in her stupor, she could hear her classmates faintly calling, _Trixie… Trixie… Trixie…!_

 

Katya was waving the taller girl down. She was always doing that, it seemed; far away, unable to just wait and walk up to her, she had to wave and run her down as soon as she laid eyes on her. And that she did, jogging up with a nervous haste. “I got your note,” She procured a crumpled paper out of her pocket, pointing at it. It was a note Trixie had left early that morning (she had slept fitfully and was wide awake as early as 4:30), when she knew Katya was out feeding and watering the animals as she had instructed weeks earlier. She had scribbled a it within Katya’s notably blank _Holy Notebook_ which bore images of Catholic saints and bible verses in the margins and tore it out, leaning it on Katya’s rotary phone. It read, “WE NEED TO TALK.” _Proof of purchase_ , Trixie thought stupidly.

 

“What’s the deal?”

 

Trixie blinked. Regret was walloping her in the gut. Her ears got hot. What had she wanted to say? Was she stupid? She had no idea what the answer to either of these quanderies was. Maybe she needed an excuse. But why? What could she say? Hi, Katya, why’d you kiss me, well you see I’m terrified of you but I think I love you, I know you’re hiding from me, by the way, I like your shirt!

 

What she ended up saying was, unbelievably, even worse. “Did you touch yourself thinking about me while I was in the shower?”

 

Katya’s easy smile twitched, and she furrowed her eyebrows in a slant, aghast. “What?”

 

“Is that what you were gonna say before Willam came in?” Trixie continued placidly.

 

Katya laughed and averted her eyes. She bunched the paper up in her fists, shifting from foot to foot. Trixie’s gaze didn’t waver. Katya eventually opened the door of her quarters, ushering her and Trixie inside and closing the door again behind them. Katya’s ugly little black cat was there, and he yowled with contempt when he was awoken from his slumber in one of Katya’s moving boxes. Katya glanced over the cat and swallowed visibly, as if even Mitya hearing made her nervous.

 

“I—“ Katya cleared her throat. “Yuh. Yeah, that’s what I was gonna say. Ha! Wowza, that’s… Jesus. It doesn’t sound so good now.” She cringed and looked apologetically at Trixie. The formal atmosphere was back between them.

 

Trixie, finally feeling the dread set in from her decision and planning to hide in her room, or maybe kill herself, smiled thinly. “Okay. Bye!”

 

“Hold on!” Katya cried. She caught Trixie by the waist and pulled her back towards her. “That’s it?”

 

“What?” Trixie stared at the ground.

 

“That’s all you wanted to say?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Katya frowned and tenderly put a hand on the back of Trixie’s neck. Trixie recoiled and still wouldn’t look at her. “Come on, baby, what’s wrong?” Katya murmured, her voice surprisingly soft and delicate. “You’re hiding something from me. We’re friends, can’t you tell me?”

 

“You’re hiding shit from me, too,” Trixie whispered after a long pause. “So, we’re both liars.”

 

Katya was silent. Her strong grip now loosened; this was the second time Trixie had questioned Katya’s integrity, and it was getting to her. Trixie glanced up and, as soon as she saw the miserable expression on Katya’s face, felt a disgusting surge of love and hate.

 

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t mean that,” she babbled as Katya looked away. She wrapped Katya in a hug and was able to smell sweet smoke and apple shampoo in her hair. “I—“

 

“No, you’re right.” Katya’s voice was muffled in Trixie’s shoulder, where she buried herself. She nudged Mitya, who was now rubbing her legs, with the toe of her boot. “But I can't tell you. Not right now. Just don’t worry about it, okay? If that’s what’s makin’ you so upset. It’s nothing to do with you.”

 

“It’s not that—” Trixie sighed, “It’s not _just_ that, anyway. But I can’t really explain it, either.”

 

Katya huffed and nuzzled closer to Trixie. “Are you upset with _me,_ Trixie? About what happened? Cause I’m real sorry, if you didn’t—I would never make you do something you didn’t wanna do—“

 

“No, no,” Trixie soothed. She smiled into Katya’s hair. “It wasn’t about you. You were great, I really…” she faltered, pulling back and looking Katya in the face. All courage left her. “Nevermind. I just don’t know how to deal with this. My parents, y’know? It scares me, Katya. I just don’t know what I want yet.” The last part was a lie. She knew what she wanted, but she couldn’t have it.

 

Katya gently took Trixie’s hand. She rubbed a thumb over her knuckles as she spoke, soothing her, taking a nail and tracing feathery patterns against her soft skin. She brought Trixie’s hand to her face and nuzzled into the palm. She closed her eyes in easy bliss.

 

“That’s alright,” The shorter woman reassured. “Take your time. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, I swear on my mother’s name. Just tell me no.”

 

Trixie smiled, but it was bittersweet. She grit her teeth and her eyebrows were furrowed pitifully.

 

Katya pursed her lips. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Screw you,” Trixie said, but she was smiling. “I’m not gonna be able to say no for shit!” She bent down to meet Katya’s tiny stature and cradled her face with both hands, pressing their lips together in a chaste, smiley kiss. It felt good, even though Katya opened her mouth and licked grossly over Trixie’s lips.

 

Katya smacked her ass good-naturedly when she pulled away. “All the better! Let’s get to it, huh?”

 

She was dragging Trixie towards the bed, but Trixie giggled girlishly and shook her head. “Nuh-uh,” she said. “Sorry. I gotta go, I have a job interview in an hour.”

 

Katya furrowed her eyebrows and frowned deeply. “Trix-ie!” she whined, clinging to Trixie with urgency and lifting up her legs to wrap around Trixie’s middle, hanging off of her like a jungle gym. “You can’t leave me! What if you’re running away, huh? How am I supposed to know?!”

 

Trixie laughed and tried to pull Katya off of her, futilely attempting to yank apart her clasped hands. “Katya!”

 

 _“Mine!”_ Katya suddenly screeched, feigning a choked sob. “You’re mine, mine, _mine!_ I work for you, Miss Trixie, _only_ you! Who’s gonna order me around if you’re gone? Oh, God!”

 

Trixie finally shoved Katya’s hands apart, but Katya scrambled to her feet and simply threw herself against Trixie again, blubbering and fake-sobbing loudly as Trixie started out the door.

 

Trixie shook her head, sighing. “You are such a nut.”

 

“I’m only sayin’ what you told me!”

 

Trixie turned around and kissed Katya clumsily on the cheek, her own face glowing pink. “Bye,” she said. Katya laughed boisterously as she got in the truck. Trixie didn’t know why.

 

—

 

“You’re hired!”

 

Trixie blinked. She had just sat down in front of Monet’s shabby old walnut desk, cluttered with dirty lipstick tubes, an unplugged lamp, and papers that had to do with the lease on the building she had just taken up. Monet was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, both hands clasped in front of her on top of the papers. Her thick coils of hair were tied back in a gauzy red bandana, and she flashed a white smile—maybe even as white as Katya’s, Trixie mused.

 

“Pardon?” Trixie asked.

 

“You got the job!” Monet reaffirmed, reaching across the desk and shaking Trixie’s hand firmly.

 

Trixie looked puzzled, at least somewhat convinced she was having her leg pulled. Monet caught this expression and barked a laugh.

 

“I mean it! Well, Bob and Dusty-Ray already put in a good word for you, so I had high hopes, but look at you!” She gestured to Trixie with a kind of pride, leaning back in her seat, making it creak miserably. Trixie touched her hair, and Monet nodded a curt acknowledgement. “Yeah, your hair’s pretty good. Big as hell, Jesus Christ! Don’t you know flat and straight is the way to go? I even like it short, myself. But I guess you wouldn’t know about trends like that, not in this dustbowl of a town!” She laughed again, and Trixie giggled politely in response. “You ain’t doing hair, though.”

 

Trixie’s mouth fell open. The warm, fuzzy feelings from being offered a job on the spot and Monet’s semi-compliments to her hair turned into a rock and sat dully in her gut. “Excuse me?”

 

“Not yet, anyway!” Monet clarified. “Not yet.”

 

“Then… what about makeup?” Trixie was imagining doing the makeup of young girls for prom, or old women on their way to the potluck.

 

Monet howled a laugh and shook her head. “Ha!” she squealed. “Makeup!” Trixie blushed and touched her cheek, trying to wipe at her blush.

 

”Front desk, baby,” she said in a slightly sweeter tone, recognizing Trixie’s youthful disappointment. “Reception. Taking appointments, phone calls, checking folks in. I mean, look at you! Business will _boom_. You’ll be the first face these raggedy, no-good hicks see.” She stood up calmly and began to stuff Trixie’s application into a bulging, cracked folder. Trixie stood up too fast to follow, and her chair wobbled dangerously behind her.

 

“Why me?” She attempted to sound earnest, but the two words were more of a whine than anything. “I mean, does it need to be a seperate job?”

 

Monet glanced at Trixie over the folder, eyebrows raised disapprovingly, but she responded with calmness again. “You’re a cute white girl,” she said matter-of-fact-ly. “People are gonna come in, see you—“ she put on a bright, false smile and fluttered her eyelashes. “And feel right at home. By the time they find out a black lady’s doing their face, they already made the appointment!” She cackled at her ingenious. “It’s business, you dig?”

 

Trixie sighed. She was in no position to turn down a job. “I dig.”

 

“Lovely,” Monet beckoned Trixie over and gave her a too-tight hug. “I’ll let you move up to stylist eventually, girlie,” she assured. “But you gotta watch us first, huh? I can’t throw you in the lion’s den off the bat. Hair cutting is a _mean_ business, little lady. Barbers’ll kill eachother for a better position! That’s why I moved out here. I loved New York, but I couldn’t handle the competition. Figured if I get a name here, when I go back, I won’t have to deal with that horse shit.”

 

“You’re from New York, too?” Trixie asked, baffled.

 

“Of course!” Monet cried. “Are you? You don’t seem like it.”

 

“No,” Trixie answered, sighing. “But it feels like _everyone_ is moving here from New York. It’s weird.”

 

Monet simply shrugged and began ushering Trixie out of the cramped office and into the shop. “Come on, let me show you around,” she said, ignoring Trixie’s qualms. “You’re gonna do just fine!”

  


_\--_

 

Well, not exactly what they teach you in elementary school, is it?

 

_Katya pondered this as she received instruction on how to carry out the transaction, in very precise detail, with their half-rival so affectionately titled “The Vipers.” They all had matching snake tattoos that coiled around their biceps or, in the head honcho’s case, their neck. They were really shitty tats, but that’s what you got for having to do it illegally. Katya’s friends and fellow criminals were constantly throwing gang name ideas at her (The Sharks, Ropes, Queens), but Katya thought all of them were stupid—having a gang name in general was tacky, and she told them to get “any damn tattoos they please.”_

 

_“Now,” Violet was saying slowly. “No joking around, alright? Be serious, for once in your life. I hear they’re not the jokey type.”_

 

_“Yeah, Alaska ain’t,” Ginger added. “But from my understanding,  you’ll be making the score with Roxxy. And she’s like a little ball of sunshine.”_

 

_“Not cut out for this life, that’s for sure.”_

 

_“Are any of us?” Katya asked, standing up. She grabbed herself a bottle of Rosé from the gleaming bar shelf; one of the fancier options available at The Hog’s Head. The bar—Katya’s bar—was the definition of seedy. Secluded in one of the roughest corners of the city, selling lifted alcohol bearing jacked up prices without so much as a seller’s permit written in crayon. But no “funny business” went down in The Hog’s Head. Katya snuffed rumbles quicker than a cigarette, and she was liberal with her security, not allowing just any hood rat fuck to enter the bar. Her patrons often warned she’d get killed for it sooner or later, but Katya just snorted and insisted she hoped it was sooner._

 

_“Well, aren’t you philosophical,” Violet teased._

 

_“I know I am!” A small, squeaky girl cried. She was only eighteen, just a little baby, as far as the rest of them were concerned. But she was sweet and, more importantly, didn’t have anywhere else to go. Her name was Adore, and that was all they knew about her. That and the fact her parents were “real shitheaps.” She has gotten into The Hog’s Head’s small congregation when she was sixteen, and Katya saw her often, but she had never spoken to her once. The day she turned eighteen, like clockwork, she turned up at The Hog’s Head shaking like a chihuahua and promising she’d do anything so long as she could stay there. Katya took pity on her, and despite her colleagues’ incessant complaining hired her as a part time bartender and full time hood. She did dirty work._

 

_“Sure, honey,” Ginger said. She rolled her eyes and took a drag off of her joint before passing it to Violet. Katya poured herself a glass of the pretty pink wine, watching the light refract off of the glass, before sipping it, contemplative._

 

_“If Kat can be a damn gang leader--”_

 

_“Oh, don’t call me that.”_

 

_“--and be a dyke, then hey, how come I can’t?”_

 

_“It’s not like it was easy.” Katya looked listlessly at the big hairy pig head on the wall, its glass eyes staring back with an equally bored expression, despite its wide open jaws in a crazed smile._

 

 _“I mean, it still isn’t. Do you know how many fags and queens I’ve walked home? I got jumped by some fucker once when I was your age for it. And the queen I was with pulled out a knife and said, ‘This faggot’ll skin you and wear you if you fuckin’ touch her.” The guy almost pissed himself. Ran screaming for the police. And I asked her, ‘Why’d you have me walk you home?’ And she said, ‘Honey, I was walking_ you _home.” The women giggled with amusement._

 

_She sneered wickedly, mirroring the hog on the wall. “And now I have a gun instead of a knife!”_

 

_“Yeah,” Violet snorted. “One you barely know how to use!”_

 

\--

 

“Peggy? Ruth?” Trixie called hesitantly. She had come back inside after a long ride she had taken on Barbie around the perimeter of the property. A two hour ride, in fact. She was mulling over all of the events of the past couple weeks as she bobbed and swayed in her saddle, the reins held limply at her thighs. She just let Barbie lead the way at her own leisurely pace, sniffing around, but staying obediently on the path. She felt far calmer after running through her woes, which was rare; normally, it only made her feel worse. At the moment, she was content, and as she had tiptoed inside was possessed to ask Peggy if she wanted any of her old dolls; but Peggy was missing from her room, along with Ruth. Trixie was more puzzled than worried. She ascended the staircase, being careful to step on the sides so they wouldn’t creak, sliding her hand up the railing delicately. She walked down the hall, her steps quick and nervous, and heard soft voices drifting from Margaret’s room.

 

“... What did the girl do?”

 

“Yeah, what’d she do, Miss Katherine?”

 

Trixie blinked with pleasant surprise. Katya? She continued towards the door, her slippered feet shuffling quietly. She heard Katya laugh and some kind of movement, and then a “Be still, Peggy,” from Margaret.

 

“No, no, it’s alright,” Katya was saying. Then she cleared her throat as Trixie finally tiptoed up to the door, which was slightly ajar. “Well, the girl was very smart. She had a big metal file that belonged to her Daddy, like the ones in blacksmith shops, y’know? And her big brother gave it to her,” Trixie heard Michael (Still awake?) snort with satisfaction. “And she said, ‘Come, feast upon this, serpent, it will quench you.’ So the snake slithered on up,” Peggy giggled, “and sniffed the file. It smelled just like blood, and so he licked it.”

 

“Wouldn’t that hurt him?” Ruth asked.

 

“Well, of course it did,” Katya agreed solemnly. “Hurt the ever-living hell out of him. And he was about to turn on the girl, but when he looked at the file, he saw blood, and thought the file was bleeding. So he decided to lick it again. And the more he licked it, the more blood he saw, and he just licked even _more_!”

 

“Is that why snakes have the little cut in their tongue?” Peggy said.

 

“Sure is,” Katya agreed after a nearly impossible to detect hesitation. “After he realized licking it wasn’t working, he tried to bite it. But the metal was too hard, and it wouldn’t give way. But he kept on trying, he bit and wrangled with it until it filed his fangs all the way down!”

 

“Whoa,” Margaret said.

 

“Then, he finally realized he couldn’t win. He realized he had been tricked. He said, ‘Foul girl! You cheated me, and now I will eat you for certain!’ And the girl picked up the snake by his tail and let him snap at her, but she didn’t get so much as a scratch. ‘Foolish snake,’ she told him. ‘You really are one of a simple mind to have thought you could gain from the file. And now, because of your foolishness, you cannot hurt me.’”

 

The children hummed, pondering this moral proposition disguised as a bedtime story. Trixie was peeking through the slit in the door, and in the dim light of Margaret’s lamp was able to see the almost baroque scene. Katya was sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor with Peggy nestled comfortably in her lap, being bounced by Katya’s restless knee. Ruth was also on the floor, laying on her belly with her legs kicked up into the air and her chin rested in the palms of her hands, her eyes drooping. Margaret was in bed, sitting on the very edge, a teddy bear in her own lap, watching with fascination. Michael was slumped up against the back wall, presumably trying to seem moody. Disinterested. But his posture was upright and his eyes alert. They were all transfixed—and so was Trixie.

 

“Then what?” Ruth was leaning forward.

 

“Well, the snake just slithered away, I guess. He knew he got bit.”

 

“The girl didn’t kill him?” Michael asked, earnestly perplexed.

 

Katya shook her head. “No use. He learned his lesson, and he wasn’t gonna hurt anyone again.”

 

“Shoulda killed him,” Michael said. “For good measure.”

 

“Tell another!” Peggy begged. “Tell another!”

 

“No, no, you all _really_ have got to sleep now,” Katya insisted. The kids sighed, and as Katya stood up Peggy still clinged to her.

 

“No!” The smallest cried, hugging tight around Katya’s neck and digging her legs into her waist. “I’m not tired!” Peggy yawned soon after she spoke. Katya blinked, her gray eyes shining in the light of the lamp, and Trixie was about to step in and save her from Peggy’s wrath. But then Katya smiled softly and supported the little girl so she wasn’t clinging for dear life, patting her back.

 

“Hey, now, don’t worry,” she soothed. “I’ve got plenty of stories! I can’t waste them all tonight. I’ll carry you to your room. Come on, Ruth, Michael…” She walked a big circle around the room. She bent down and lifted Ruth to her feet, holding her hand. Then she patted Michael’s head, and he surprisingly did not object. She smoothed Margaret’s hair and urged her to lay down and go to sleep before turning out the lamp.

 

“Trixie!” Katya gasped in bewilderment as she opened the door, being careful to close it behind her once the children shuffled out. “Oh, you scared me!”

 

“Hi, Trissy,” Peggy mumbled. “Miss Katherine was tellin’ us bedtime stories.”

 

“They weren’t bedtime stories!” Michael objected.

 

“I heard,” Trixie said. She was beaming. “How’d that come about?”

 

Katya shrugged. “Well, Peggy was in Margaret’s room getting her hair braided, and I started to tell them a story. And then at some point Ruth and Michael showed up, and I just kept on telling stories,” she explained. “No scary ones! Nice ones. Good lessons. I didn’t even swear!”

 

Trixie grinned. Her heart was thrumming so hard it might burst. She followed as Katya took the children to their bedrooms, Peggy and Ruth being last, since they shared a room. She lifted Peggy up onto her bunk bed and stepped on one of the ladder rungs in order to tuck her in. Trixie wanted to tell her that neither Peggy or Ruth had been tucked in since they were toddlers, but she didn’t have the heart to. They were endlessly pleased. Peggy rolled over and fell asleep almost instantly, and Ruth’s eyes were closed by the time Katya finished tucking her in and nesting a teddy in the crook of her elbow. Satisfied, Katya watched them for a moment before tiptoeing back out of the room and closing the door softly.

 

“Good kids,” she mused.

 

Trixie flung her arms around Katya, pressing her lips against hers gratefully. Katya hugged around Trixie’s middle and giggled in pleasant surprise.

 

“Hey, what was that for?”

 

_(i love you i love you oh god i love you)_

 

“For putting them to bed like that. It makes my life a lot easier. Thank you.”

 

Katya shrugged. “No problem. I didn’t even know I knew bedtime stories. I think they were Aesop's fables with my own personal twist…!”

 

Katya continued rambling as Trixie made her way to her room, at the end of a corridor on the second floor, shuffling along the jungle of plain brown carpet. Trixie smiled and pushed open the door before flipping on the light.

 

“Peggy says the damndest things sometimes… Hey, wait a minute, is this your room?”

 

Trixie nodded, if a little shyly, but she was quite proud of her stupidly pink and frothy room. At first glance, it was like a little girl’s room, but the more you looked the more you saw the budding maturity. The cluttered organization of photos and knicknacks, bottles of perfume in shapes of deer and apples, an ironing board in her closet, papers and to-do lists.

 

Katya looked around in pleased awe. “Almost a month, and I’ve never been in your room!” She exclaimed.

 

“Never thought of it, I guess,” Trixie said. “And a lady likes to keep her room private.”

 

“You’d been in my room since day one!”

 

Trixie smiled and ushered Katya inside. She took a chance and closed the door, holding her hands behind her back and watching as Katya meandered around, looking intently at her personal decorations and things that she had never even thought of, like her cowgirl pinup poster or her 30 year old guitar. She felt sweat on the back of her neck, suddenly wondering if Katya was silently scrutinizing her.

 

“Sweet, pretty, and pink,” Katya hummed. She turned swiftly on her heels and smiled. “Like you! What a coincidence!”

 

“You’re a geek.”

 

“Yuh-huh. Don’t tell my friends in New York, honey, please? I’ll put the kids to bed ‘till death do us part!”  


Trixie crossed the room and kissed Katya with a pleased sigh.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/autumngilbert13/playlist/6aOD0BtW922ODrqCwGDGzU?si=pwmn6QsDQgGkiAfUoo0Fuw
> 
> Pinterest board (now working): https://pin.it/sodfbcwinxs6mq
> 
> Tumblr: trixiesgum.tumblr.com


	7. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIXIE WATCHED KATYA SMOKE with an ache in her chest. The washy light of a half moon poured through her window and over the young woman as she stunk up Trixie’s room and sat coldly on her bed. Trixie’s shoulders were tensed all the way up to her ears. Something about this scene was familiar and frightening to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy howdy!! another hot chapter! i really like this one even if its a tad short so i hope you guys do too. yalls comments and kudos really make my day so thank you so much! ps i think i might exceed 12 chapters so we'll see

_ TRIXIE WATCHED KATYA SMOKE  _ with an ache in her chest. The washy light of a half moon poured through her window and over the young woman as she stunk up Trixie’s room and sat coldly on her bed. Trixie’s shoulders were tensed all the way up to her ears. Something about this scene was familiar and frightening to her. 

 

“Ain’t nobody out there,” she murmured slowly. She’d been rubbing Katya’s shoulders and back for a good ten minutes, and Katya still hadn’t moved. She was stock still. A statue. 

 

“I heard it,” Katya croaked. She looked out the window for the umpteenth time, and Trixie felt her muscles twitch to stand up. Trixie quickly wrapped her arms around Katya’s middle and squeezed, trying to seem reassuring, but she was holding on for her own dear life. Katya settled back into place and sighed, head hanging. 

 

Not long after they had accidentally fallen asleep in her bed, Katya spooned in Trixie’s arms, Trixie had awoken in the middle of the night to a sound. Multiple sounds, actually; Shuffling footsteps. The wind. A lock jangling. And then Birdie had started barking like crazy, howling like Trixie had never heard her whole life, which scared her a good deal. Whatever was down there, Birdie did not like.  Birdie’s yelps drowned out the rest of the sounds, but Katya had apparently awoken to the sounds of locks jangling, too. She had sat up groggily and taken one good look at Trixie’s pale, frightened face before rolling out of bed and starting towards the door. 

 

“No!” Trixie had cried. She had gotten up, too, and threw herself in front of the door. 

 

“Trixie. Move, honey, let me go see.”

 

Trixie didn’t budge. She splayed her palms out towards Katya and pressed on her chest, holding her away. Katya made another half hearted attempt to shove Trixie out of the way, but Trixie stood her ground. Her heart was beating out of her chest and the way Katya looked was frightening her terribly, but she wouldn’t let her go. 

 

“If you go down there, I’m coming, too,” she insisted. Katya opened her mouth to speak, but Trixie suddenly hissed, “Listen!” 

 

Birdie had stopped barking. 

 

Now sweating and trembling, Trixie watched Katya assess the situation. She strained her attention towards the window, then glanced back at Trixie, and she seemed to soften. She let Trixie lead her back to the bed, but she refused to lie down and go back to sleep. 

 

“You go on and sleep,” she had told Trixie. “I’m just gonna watch.”

 

But Trixie was still unconvinced, and Katya moving to stand up reaffirmed her worries. So she didn’t sleep. She just kept herself pressed up against Katya and closed her eyes. 

 

“You know I’m not gonna sleep until I can check,” Katya said. Trixie whimpered and snuggled closer. 

 

“We’re safe,” she tried. Katya sighed and looked back at her, offering a wan smile. 

 

“ _ You’re  _ safe.”

 

Trixie’s lip wobbled. “What do you mean?”

 

Katya pulled her into her lap bridal style, kissing the top of her head and holding her close. Trixie flinched as Katya’s cigarette hovered over her thigh. “‘Cause I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you. ‘S my job.”

 

Trixie frowned at the last bit and began pressing kisses over Katya’s neck. The older woman sighed, her shoulders easing, and Trixie felt a surge of pride. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you, either, silly,” she said with a weak giggle. Her heart was still aching so badly she could sob. She loved Katya. She was  _ infatuated.  _ She was a lovesick little girl and her word vomit was the worst symptom. Every second of every day she bit her tongue to keep those three stupid words from spilling out. And even though she was scared, she found herself staring at the bow of Katya’s lips. She wanted to kiss it, so she did. 

 

But Katya didn’t kiss back. Even when Trixie kissed her full on the mouth, Katya barely so much as parted her lips. She was unnaturally stiff. Her cigarette trembled and made Trixie fearful of the hot ash that may spill off onto her sensitive skin, but she hardly cared (with the way she was feeling, Trixie would have easily stuck out her arm to be Katya’s ashtray before Kat even finished her smoke). Something was very, very wrong with Katya, and that was what mattered. Trixie wrote it off as the jitters from the unexpected 

 

_ (attempted robbery murder rape?)  _

 

sounds, which could have easily been the wind, 

 

_ (does the wind pick locks?) _

 

but it worried Trixie nonetheless. 

 

“Sleep,” Trixie offered again. 

 

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, honey.” It was supposed to be a joke, but the slight chuckle that blew past Katya’s nose was unconvincing. 

 

Trixie’s eyes grew heavier and heavier. Katya’s back was warm against her chest and stomach. Her hair, that distinct smokey apple scent, was a heavy perfume that smothered Trixie like a blanket.  _ “Pretty woman, hm-mm-mm…”  _ she slurred. A brief, frightening image flashed in her head and then disappeared, and she was sliding down, down, down into sleep. 

 

—

 

“... Heard something downstairs…”

 

“Well, and Miss Trixie was scared…”

 

“Yes ma’am, I went down… my pistol…”

 

“... Nobody there…” 

 

Trixie rolled over in bed. She had had a bad dream. A terrible one, one that makes you wet your pants as a little kid and run yelling  _ Mommy, Mommy!  _ She didn’t remember much. She was running from something. At one point, she cut herself on 

 

_ (? a file ?) _

 

a thing she couldn’t recall and tumbled down into a gutter. Drowning in the rushing, rancid water. Choking. Until she got lifted out. And then a monstrously big snake with the head of a crow started pecking at her. She tossed and turned her head to dodge its large beak, dangerously sharp and gleaming with the ability to kill in the light of the moon. She put her hands out and buried them in the feathers. When she took them out, the flesh had melted from her bones, leaving a horrible white skeleton hand in its place. 

 

But now the sun from her open window was gleaming on her face and her feet were cold as they stuck out from her blankets. She was struggling to consciousness, groggily hearing voices floating from the hallway. 

 

Trixie tore her eyes open and knuckled at them, blinking. She looked around her room, then towards her open door. Katya was leaning back against the wall, still in yesterday’s clothes. The sun glowed on her porcelain skin, and her makeup was smudged and melting slightly. She nodded solemnly as Martha spoke to her. 

 

“She’s softer than she puts on, you know? Gentle, if you can believe it. So I appreciate you lookin’ out for her. And us.”

 

“Sure thing. It’s my job, after all.”

 

“You’re a farmhand, not security!”

 

“Farmhand oughta have some loyalty, shouldn’t he, ma’am?” Katya glanced into Trixie’s room out of the corner of her eye and spotted Trixie stirring, eyes open. She brought her pointer finger to her lips. “We should be quiet now. Little pitchers…”

 

“Aw, shut up,” Trixie said hoarsely. 

 

Martha poked her head into Trixie’s room and grinned wide. “Morning, Trissy. You finally decided to join us!” she hummed, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

 

“What time is it?” Trixie asked, frowning. 

 

Martha snorted. “Nine in the A.M.”

 

“Oh, shit!”

 

_ “Language,”  _ Martha hissed. 

 

“Sorry, Mama,” Trixie looked at Katya sheepishly. 

 

“Aw, give her a break, Missus Firkus,” Katya said, voice low and smooth. “She was up late for a long while after we had that scare.” Trixie looked at the rings of purple under Katya’s eyes and the cup of coffee in her hand (presumably not the first or even the second) and knew she hadn’t slept at all. 

 

Trixie went downstairs and ate breakfast. Everyone else had eaten, so she resorted to munching on an apple and some toast while waiting for Katya to come downstairs to join her. She tapped her fingertips restlessly on the wood of the table, scuffed her feet against the tile beneath her. The clock ticked mockingly above her. 

 

Katya came trotting downstairs after hundreds of  _ tick-tock _ s had passed. Trixie was long since finished with her measly meal, but she whirled around and offered for Katya to sit with her anyway. 

 

“No thanks,” Katya said. “I already ate. And with the amount of coffee I’ve had…” she smiled wanly, taking a wide brimmed sunhat off of a coat hook. “See you soon!”

 

Trixie stood up, her chair creaking loudly as it scraped against the tile, making her wince. “Where you going?”

 

Katya furrowed her eyebrows and seemed to sigh a breath of contempt. “To do my job?” she said quizzically. It wasn’t an openly mean spirited statement, but something about her tone still made Trixie’s heart fall into a pit in her stomach. 

 

“Oh.” How had she forgotten Katya was a farmhand? She had duties, responsibilities; Katya was full of elbow grease. Trixie had shown her exactly what her job was, for Christ’s sake. And it certainly wasn’t to dote on a lovesick farmer’s daughter.  _ Doesn’t even wanna fuck you, I’ll bet,  _ Trixie thought grimly. 

 

Katya brushed past her like a ghost, towards the door, picking up a worn leather satchel that hung on the back of Mike’s armchair, where he sat and watched television when he wasn’t working. “What do you want me to fix for lunch?” Trixie tried desperately. That was something Katya liked for certain, wasn’t it? Trixie’s cooking? Why, she told Trixie so herself all those weeks ago. Yes, this was the ticket! 

 

“No need, dollface,” Katya replied. The pit in Trixie’s stomach yawned open as Katya unbuckled the satchel and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in saran wrap. “Packed myself a lunch already!” She must have noticed Trixie’s shocked expression, because she grimaced and added tonelessly, “I’m not as incompetent as you think, Miss Trixie.” Trixie’s jaw dropped, her throat tightening, and then she set it calmly. 

 

“I guess not.”  _ Incompetent enough to forget I’m even here. Good for you, just goodie-good for you, then, you fucking lying bitch.  _

 

Trixie, stunned by her own coldness and anger and even moreso stunned by Katya’s lack of notice to her grim mood, watched Katya shove the sandwich back into her bag with a strange clunk of something metal ( _ I bet it’s a thermos) _ , buckle it, adjust her hat, and disappear into the September sunshine. 

  
  


Trixie lamented all of this to Pearl, who she had not seen in days while the young lady was traveling back to Florida for a funeral. Her old Great Grandma Jean had kicked the bucket. Pearl was unfazed by the death and, bored out of her mind, was glad to listen to Trixie’s woes as they sat in her bubblegum pink room munching Oreo cookies. 

 

“Surprised you didn’t fuck last night,” Pearl said. “Maybe that’s why she’s in such a rotten mood. You invited her in and didn’t let her get a piece!”

 

Trixie sighed and lazily thumped her stocking feet against the wall. She was laying on her back in bed, staring at the ceiling, her hands clasped on her stomach in this teenage girl’s homemade Freudian therapy session. “No, she didn’t even try. She wasn’t in a bad mood, she was laughing and everything. Maybe she just thought I’d be too chicken-shit to do it.”

 

“Boy, it stinks in here,” Pearl said passively, dunking her Oreo into a glass of milk bearing the faded images of Mickey Mouse and his cheerful comrades, shaking her head. 

 

Trixie turned her head and scowled at her friend. “Katya smoked up a storm last night.”

 

Pearl stuck out her sticky, creme coated tongue. “Yuck. Maybe the black lung put her in the bad mood!” she laughed, placing a cookie on Trixie’s pursed lips. Trixie opened her mouth reluctantly and crunched down. 

 

“I just think she’s spooked,” Pearl said finally. “That’s when she started acting weird, right? After someone tried to break in—?”

 

“Nobody was trying to break in,” Trixie snapped around her snack. 

 

When Pearl first arrived and the rest of Trixie’s family was away at work, school, or something else, Trixie had opened the door and immediately asked, “Does it look like someone tried to break in?”

 

Pearl stared at her with furrowed eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

 

Trixie walked past her friend and closed the door behind her before examining it. She looked for scratches, or if the bolt lock was damaged. Then, she began scouting around the flower bushes in front of the house, leaning over with her eyes focused downward intently. 

 

Pearl watched with amusement. “What in the fuck are you looking for?” she asked. “Pirate treasure?”

 

Trixie groaned as she pawed through the bushes. “No, dipshit,” she hissed. “Me and Kat woke up last night to what sounded like someone breaking in.”

 

Pearl crouched down next to Trixie, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Jesus, man, you okay? Did you catch them?”

 

Trixie had scoured the front and side yard, then stood up straight and hooked her thumbs through her belt loops. “Nobody was trying to break in!” she announced proudly. Her suspicions were right all along! Boy, wasn’t Katya stupid? 

 

Trixie failed to acknowledge that just because there had been no blatant evidence (a gun or the lock broken) didn’t mean that there wasn’t an attempt, or that if Birdie hadn’t scared them away they might very well have succeeded, but these thoughts gnawed away at the back of her brain. Pearl’s doubtful expression at Trixie’s failure to elaborate had given her own suspicions away, but Trixie was just glad Pearl didn’t pry and allowed Trixie to lead her back up to her room for what she was  _ really  _ concerned about; Katya. 

 

“Right,” Pearl said, shifting on the bed. “But she thought so, and that spooked her. Nothing like a little robbery-murder scare to drop the ‘ole libido.” She nudged Trixie in the ribs, urging her to at least giggle. Trixie did. 

 

“I guess,” Trixie sighed. She failed to mention that Trixie had been frightened, too. Badly frightened. Aside from the obviously blood-chilling prospect of an intruder (“Remember the Clutter case?” Trixie had asked Pearl, hugging her knees. “Sure do. Those guys that killed ‘em came to Florida, my parents were scared to death. Did you see the girl’s picture? Nancy, or Norma, I think her name was. Pretty girl.” And that had scared Trixie, too, because even pretty girls that went to church and loved her parents got blasted away), something else had frightened Trixie. As she held her hands up and pushed Katya away, something made her a little afraid of the girl she was so hopelessly in love with. Something about the hard stare and glassy eyes and when she shoved a little too hard. She had done this before, she knew something 

 

_ (why did she run from new york why why) _

 

that Trixie didn’t. 

 

“I feel bad for thinking that stuff about her. It’s like I want to apologize, even though she doesn’t know.” She closed her eyes and groaned again. “That’s the other thing. She doesn’t know. I’m like a ghost!”

 

“Trixie.” Pearl placed her hand on Trixie’s hair and smoothed it. “She couldn’t ignore you if she tried. If you just go on up next time you’re alone and she’s gotten sleep, flutter your lashes, and say, ‘Hey, pretty mama, come on and make that sweet,  _ sweet love  _ to me—‘“

 

“Ew!” Trixie screeched. “Oh, Jesus, be  _ quiet!  _ The kids might hear!” 

 

Pearl handed her friend another Oreo and laughed dryly, for a long while. “You’re a funny kid, Mattel.” Trixie smiled and, against her best interests, ate another cookie contentedly. She was feeling better every minute. You couldn’t really be mad around Pearl—her dry humor was too much to be annoyed by. Eventually, she always got a crack in.

 

Pearl gulped down the milk, flavored with cookie (which Trixie grimaced at and uttered, “Yuck”), and chuckled to herself. “She’s still a big fat liar, so make sure you call her out while she’s whispering sweet nothings, or whatever.”

 

Trixie propped herself up on her elbow. “Oh, yeah? How come?”

 

“‘Cause she’s down at the bar with Bob!” Pearl snorted. 

 

Trixie’s easy grin twitched. She swallowed with a dry throat. “What?” 

 

Pearl’s ears perked—she heard the low, trying-too-hard-to-be-casual tone of Trixie’s voice.  _ Ah, Shit,  _ her eyes said as she turned back to her friend. “She—I mean, I saw them there on my way here.” 

 

“Doing  _ what?” _

 

“Jesus, Trix!” Pearl exclaimed, setting the glass down on her dresser with a definitive thud. “Just sitting on the porch and drinking beers! It’s not like she was cheating or anything, for Chrissake—“

 

_ “Motherfucker!”  _ Trixie swept her legs off of the wall, whizzing past Pearl’s head. She slammed her toe into the corner of the dresser with a hiss of pain in her effort to get up. The glass teetered dangerously off the edge, threatening to destroy poor old Mickey, before Pearl swept it up in her hands. 

 

Katya was too busy to sit with Trixie, but could go drink up a storm with her good pal Bob, huh?

 

Trixie started to shove her tattered white boots on with violent haste. She thought of the stupid, condescending look on Katya’s face that morning. “To do my job?” The hostility! The pain it gave Trixie! She may as well had just said, “To do my job, you stupid little slut, isn’t that whatcha pay me for? Right, dollface? Honey? Miss Trixie?”

 

“‘To do my job’ my  _ ass!”  _ Trixie spat. Pearl was standing over her as if to grab her, but it was like Trixie was hot to the touch. 

 

“Shit, come on,” Pearl pleaded as Trixie scrambled for the door. “She’s done with her work here by nine usually, anyway, isn’t she?”

 

Trixie froze mid-step.  _ “What time is it?” “Nine in the A.M.”  _

 

_ “Where you going?” “To do my job?” _

 

_ You little lying— _

 

Trixie made a sound somewhere between a groan and scream. Pearl whined something about being glad her parents weren’t around to see this crazed outburst. 

 

Trixie tramped downstairs, swirling herself around the banister and making a B-Line for the door. She planned to give Katya—and Bob, for that matter—a piece of her mind. There was surely a rational explanation, but she didn’t care to hear it. It wasn’t even that big of a deal on its very own, but all the lying, all the mystery—at some point or another it stopped being sexy and started being annoying. Katya hardly even comforted her after the scare. “ _ You’re  _ safe.”  _ What the fuck does that even mean? _

 

“Trixie!” Pearl called distantly behind her. “Are you on the rag? Come on, just cry it out with me!”

 

Trixie swiped her hand over the spot on the counter her keys always rested. Instead of cool, tinkling metal, she just got flat tile. Trixie looked all over the counter (with what, in other circumstances, would be a humorous expression of bewilderment) and tried to find them again, but they weren’t there.

 

Katya was 

 

_ (incompetent incompetent incompetent) _

 

in for it. 

 

Trixie whirled around. “Did she take my truck?” she asked, her voice cracking on the last word. 

 

Pearl gnawed her lip and shifted from foot to foot. “I mean, she has before—“

 

_ “Pearl.” _

 

Pearl winced. “Yeah, she did. But—“

 

Too late. Trixie was flying out the door. Sure enough, her good old yellow Coyote Chaser was noticeably absent from the driveway. Without pausing, Trixie strode across the gravel which crunched under her boots, straight to Katya’s quarters. She tried the handle, but it was locked good and tight. The way it jangled was familiar in a distant way, and maybe if she realized that sooner she wouldn’t have dealt with so much trouble later. Instead she cursed under her breath and turned back to Pearl, who was standing docilely on the porch. 

 

“Get the red key under our doormat,” Trixie hollered—it was the quarters’ spare key, Pearl knew that from their childhood escapades. Against her best interests, she obeyed and handed it to Trixie. Just like old times. 

 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

 

“Maybe not.”

 

Pearl slapped her leg and groaned. “Willam was right, you really are emotional! Shit, I shouldn’t have told you—“ 

 

Trixie threw the door open with a huff and marched into Katya’s quarters, ignoring all the privacy she was entitled to. It was pretty much the same as when Trixie had last seen it, save for some papers scattered on her desk and her telephone hanging off of its clutch. Trixie ignored the clutter—she was there for one thing, and immediately found what she was looking for hanging on a thumbtack in a cork board; the keys to Katya’s slick black lincoln. 

 

“She takes my car, I take hers.” It was the petty logic of an elementary schooler, something Peggy would say to justify burying Ruth’s favorite dolly in the backyard (and now something Trixie used to justify breaking into her friend’s private space for the second time). But it made perfect sense in Trixie’s fervent anger. She left the quarters with her strange prize and not so much as a glance at anything else. 

 

Trixie walked around the quarters to where Katya’s car was parked and got in. It still reeked of cigarettes and old leather which had probably been stained by all substances known to man. As she settled into the seat and spotted the little details—napkins blotted with lipstick, a cross necklace dangling and gleaming on the rearview mirror, the smell of Katya’s cologne—she felt a pang of love so strong that, mingled and clashing with her heated anger, one intensifying the other, it made her want to break down in tears. Trixie started to hit the gas, and Pearl immediately cried from outside, “Wait!” 

 

“In or out!” Trixie barked. 

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Pearl groaned sickly as she climbed into the passenger seat. 

 

Katya was in for it, alright.

 

—

 

Trixie went flying down the mangled, pothole filled roads in the tiny Lincoln, not really caring if she totaled it or not. As Pearl clutched the dashboard and buckled her seatbelt, Trixie pitied all the driving Katya had to do in the car. 

 

But not that much. 

 

She sped towards the bar and quickly pulled into the lot out front. Before Trixie could hop out, Pearl grabbed her by the arm. “Hold on!”

 

“Oh, no, you’re not stopping me now—“

 

_ “The truck isn’t here, dipshit!”  _

 

Trixie stopped struggling to get out and slumped back in her seat. She surveyed the scene. There was O’Hara’s shop, the window covered in caution tape. An old drunk swaying and bobbing towards a tractor. A group of rough-and-tumble looking cats leaning against the railing outside of the bar. She thought she spotted Katya amongst them, but no dice. It was another steely blonde, throwing back a Budweiser with a grimace while her confidants chattered around her. 

 

“Sonuvabitch,” Trixie huffed. 

 

“Forget about it, Trixie,” Pearl said, patting the younger woman’s arm. “She’ll be home soon enough. By then, you’ll be cooled off and you can just talk about it!”

 

Trixie stared ahead towards the bar, her lips twisting into a snarl. “No way. I’m gonna talk to  _ someone,  _ goddamnit. At least Bob. I bet that’s where they are, his house. Bastards.” She revved the engine again and gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. The grimacing blonde glanced in the direction that the noise was coming from and spotted the car with a dumbfounded look of surprise, then glee. And then, as Trixie began pulling away, she saw the blonde do something that filled her with such shock and terror she was certain she imagined it. 

 

The busty girl had turned to face the car completely, her posture going from slouched to alert. The Bud in her hand was completely forgotten and dangled loosely by the neck in her limp left hand. Her buddies had ceased talking from the looks of it; they glanced with squinted eyes towards the vehicle, then back at the tall blonde woman. The wheels of the Lincoln skidded slowly backwards, Trixie’s sweaty hand yanking the clutch back. 

 

The blonde slowly raised her right arm up, like an animatronic, jutting forward until it reached eye level, her hand on its side like she was going to deliver a robotic slap. Her bruised fingers curled against her palm and the index pointed accusingly towards Trixie, the thumb also raised, in a mock, shadow-puppet version of a handgun. The woman steadied aim and cocked her head, squinting one eye, adjusting her arm, the invisible sight directly in line with Trixie’s head. She made a rolling motion with her thumb, and the imaginary hammer went  _ click  _ as it loaded its deadly cargo. 

 

One more moment passed, Trixie peeling out as fast as she could on the small road, careful not to hit the dog that was wheeling and barking in the street. Sweating, she started to slam the steering wheel to the right, but it was too late. The woman suddenly slammed her thumb down and jerked her hand up; the imaginary kick of the gun as it fired right between Trixie’s eyes.  _ Bam.  _ Good shot, lady! Killed the ‘ole cow with one go! 

 

The gesture must have lasted only seconds, but Trixie’s heart was pounding as she drove down the backroads towards Bob’s farm, dirt kicking up and coating the shiny car. Pearl was staring listlessly out the window with some worry on her face, but Trixie felt it was more because of her than the woman at the bar; Pearl hadn’t mentioned it. It wasn’t a big deal. It was the same as when Michael held up that imaginary rifle at the breakfast table and  _ KABLAM!  _ He had no intention of hurting Trixie, it was merely a demonstration. As for the group of hoods (who Trixie did not recall seeing anywhere in Sudbury or Mirefield in her whole life), they were probably just trying to scare Trixie. They wanted to see the little country girl squirm, and they were getting it. Trixie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. 

 

_ (there was something wrong by god) _

 

“Hey, Pearl?”

 

Pearl turned casually towards Trixie. “Yeah?”

 

“Did you see—“

 

_ (that girl who pretended to shoot at the car? No, not with a real gun. Not even a toy gun. Just her hand, flesh and skin. Did you see it? Well, I did, cause it scared me so bad I almost wet myself like a little kid) _

 

Trixie cleared her throat and banged her fist on the dashboard. “Did you see ‘em anywhere else?”

 

“No, girl. Scout’s honor.”

 

Trixie turned back towards the road. What a goddamned baby she had turned into. Where was the Trixie that chased boys and twisted their arms until they cried as a little girl? Where was the Trixie that stalked around Sudbury at strange hours with her pet bear-dog? Where was the Trixie that revved her deadly chainsaw and watched the belt spin with sick fascination, chopping lumber like bone, feeling like Queen of the World?  _ Maybe Mama’s right,  _ she thought grimly.  _ I really am soft.  _

 

“Well, you tell me if you do.” 

 

Pearl snorted and drew one knee up to her chest. “Aye aye, cap’n,” she said with a two-fingered salute. 

 

Trixie turned on the radio and cranked it. It crackled and sputtered for a moment, trying to find the signal, and then it came all at once, The Rolling Stone’s low, smooth playing sweeping over the car. 

  
“ _ But don’t play with me, cause you’re playin’ with fire…”  _


	8. Hide 'n Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “K,
> 
> I don’t suppose you realize what kind of trouble you left back here. Or maybe you do, and you don’t care. Either way, don’t be surprised by this letter. I knew where you’d end up, but I imagine you’re going to keep going. Call me. I’d prefer not to talk about this through the mail. Dirty rats are always reading secrets, huh, Tiny?
> 
> Yours, V”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go again! ive had this chapter done for licherally a week but like... ive been nervous to post it for some reason? dw theres nothing like. super crazy but i dunno! i really hope you like it bc im really excited for how this is coming along and whats coming next! also the spaces in between my paragraphs are. so big i just realized so im sorry if thats annoying. thank yall so much for comments and support and i wanna thank my biggest support Ever tumblr user lordkatya.... i love her and shes so talented. thank u bye!

“I think I’m going to stay in the car.”

 

“Boy, I thought you were gonna say, ‘I think I’m gonna be sick.’”

 

“That, too.”

 

“Don’t puke in the car,” Trixie warned. She was standing outside of the Lincoln, wind whipping her hair, which she had tied back using a bandana she found in the car. It was black, which did not match her tastes at all, but Trixie always kept her hair back in the wind—her mom had enforced that rule since Cherry’s death, and now it was routine. 

 

“Oh, so you care about her  _ car _ now?” Pearl asked. Trixie groaned and flipped her the bird before slamming the door and beginning the long walk up to Bob’s porch. She passed tractors, a few farmhands, saw fields that extended for acres and acres, ones you could easily get lost following. But Bob’s house was incredibly modest, despite how filthy rich he was. It lacked the hustle and bustle of the rest of his ranch, which seemed to constantly be in harvest season. It was secluded on the property with a few fruit trees shading the porch, which Bob tended so intently that any punk ass kid who wanted to snatch some of the juicy peaches or perfectly crisp apples had a 90/10 chance of being chased off the property with a shotgun. 

 

“Well, hey, Trixie,” Bob said as he opened the door. “What’s going on? How’s the salon job?”

 

“Where’s Katya?”

 

Bob sighed and shook his head. “She’s not here, kid, sorry to disappoint. Isn’t she supposed to be working?”

 

“She is,” Trixie agreed. “But she was with  _ you  _ at The Ginger Snap!” She accused Bob with the same tone as a smart-aleck cop on one of those crime shows, where they finally catch the crook with some hard-hitting evidence that they just can’t squirm away from. Bob blinked, surprised, and then opened his door wider. 

 

“Why don’t you come in, we can talk,” he said smoothly. 

 

“Great.” She let the door close behind her and sauntered towards Bob’s leather couch, plopping herself down and crossing one leg over the other. Bob walked into the kitchen and started to shuffle around in the fridge.

 

“You want some iced tea?”

 

“No, thanks.”

 

“Suit yourself.” Trixie heard the  _ plink _ of ice cubes into a glass and the pouring of the drink. The jug was put away, the fridge door closed, and Bob shuffled back over to the living room. Trixie wanted to shout at Bob to hurry up, but she didn’t dare have that kind of attitude towards him before he told her The Goods. So he took his sweet time, pacing a bit, eyebrows furrowed. He dragged his fingers over a shelf which had many framed pictures from his hayday in New York, surrounded by friends, gambling, having the time of his life. The Bob in those photos was youthful and happy, but there was still something hard about him. Mean. The way his lips curled into a sneer, the coldness of his eyes. The present, aged Bob was tired, but his eyes were softer and a little sad. He finally sat down in a big armchair and put a knuckle in his mouth, heaving a great sigh. 

 

Finally, he spoke. “Katya’s got more going on than you could ever imagine, Trixie. Moving from The Big Apple to this honky-tonk ain’t easy; I know. You lose your friends. Your habits change entirely. If I’m being honest, you go a little crazy at first. You don’t realize how much you liked the sirens at night, and the sleezy bars, and even the assholes that pick fights with you on the street then buy you a beer, until it’s all gone. And this place is great, I love it here, but…” he sighed. “It’s different. It’s hard. Being a farmhand is  _ hard,  _ Trixie. You’ve been on a farm your whole life. You gotta give your girl some slack. She’s homesick.” 

 

Trixie pondered this, quite surprised by Bob’s honesty. He was looking somberly into his cup of amber before taking a drink. “Do you get it?”

 

“Sure,” Trixie said coolly, shrugging. “But that isn’t what’s been going on.”

 

Bob leaned back. “Excuse me?”

 

“Bob, pardon my French, but cut the shit,” Trixie demanded. “Tell me what’s really happening. I know Katya’s trying to adjust, sure I do—but what the fuck does that have to do with the robbery at O’Hara’s? Why’d you have to talk to her so urgent?”

 

Bob looked incredulously at Trixie and opened his mouth to speak, but Trixie cut him off, rising from her seat. “And don’t you try to threaten me or say I’m a little kid. I’m not! By God, I am an  _ adult,  _ and you gotta fuckin’ treat me like one!”

 

Bob watched Trixie with shocked, then calm repose. Trixie huffed through her nostrils like a bull. He cleared his throat and sat back. “Okay. Alright, I’ll treat you like an adult.” 

 

Trixie slowly sat back down in her seat, mouth agape, before she closed it and straightened up. “Thank you,” she mumbled. 

 

“And here’s my adult, real world, no bullshit answer,” Bob leaned forward, his hands clasped on one knee. “You don’t get to know every little detail of people’s lives. Just because you like Katya, or because you think she’s your little servant, doesn’t mean she—or I—have to tell you our private business.”

 

Trixie’s eyes widened indignantly, her mouth slowly opening again. Bob lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “And just because you’re an adult doesn’t mean you’re going to understand. Ignoring the fact that you’re young, you’ve lived  _ here—“  _ He gestured with contempt to the open, empty fields surrounding them, “Your whole damn life. There are things out there that would make your  _ fucking head spin.”  _ He suddenly stood up and threw back the last of his drink. “And that’s that.” 

 

Trixie sputtered for a moment and tried to gain her composure, to no avail. She couldn’t get the words out, nothing that would make sense, anyway. A lump was forming in her throat _.  _ “That’s not fair,” she choked finally. 

 

“Well,” Bob inhaled sharply and walked over to his window, drawing back the curtains. “Ain’t that just a bitch?” 

 

Trixie went to speak again and demand a  _ real _ answer, but suddenly Bob bellowed, “ _ Holy shit!”  _

 

Trixie shot to her feet. “What?  _ What?!” _

 

Bob turned on her, his face pallid and twisted with horror. “Did you take Katya’s Lincoln?”

 

Trixie wrung her hands, eyes boggling out of her head. Suddenly her petty kindergarten logic was about to sound  _ really  _ stupid. “I-I-I—“

 

“ _ ARE YOU TRYING TO GET SHOT?!” _

 

Trixie stumbled backwards in terror as Bob shouted at her. She tripped over her own feet and fell with a thud onto her backside. And then she began to cry. “What duh-do you m-m- _ mean?!”  _ she babbled. She thought of Pearl sitting in the car, probably smoking and bored out of her mind, and wailed. 

 

Bob flew to the window and slammed the curtains shut. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he repeated. Trixie continued to sob into her hands. Finally, Bob stood over Trixie and reached down to pick her up by the hand. “Oh come on, now, don’t start crying cause the big, scary negro started shouting atcha,” he hissed. “Get up!”

 

Trixie got to her feet shakily, still hugging herself as her sobs quieted. She wiped snot from her nose with the back of her hand. “Bob,  _ please!”  _ she pleaded. “This is what I meant! You’ve gotta t-tell me—“

 

“Tell you not to joyride your farmhand’s car?” Bob barked. “I had to teach you that?“

 

“ _ She took my car!”  _ Trixie wailed. “What was I suh-supposed to do? How was I supposed to know I’d get sh-sh-SHOT? This is what I mean! You won’t tell me anything! Tell me  _ now!”   _ Bob just stared at her, and she noticed his hand was inching towards the gun around his belt, but she knew it wasn’t to be turned on her. “I duh-don’t want to die!” Trixie added uselessly. 

 

“Katya’s in some trouble, alright?” Bob finally hissed, looking over his shoulder. “Big trouble. And that’s all I can say—“

 

“O-hhh,” Trixie moaned, voice wavering as she put her head in her hands. “What, exactly?” she begged. 

 

“I can’t tell you.”

 

_ “God!”  _

 

Bob grabbed Trixie by the shoulders. “Trixie. Did you see  _ anyone  _ suspicious today? Did anyone threaten you?”

 

Trixie’s tongue was dry and too big to fit in her mouth.  _ Bam.  _ That wasn’t a threat, was it? No, Trixie imagined it, of course.  _ A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse, of course!  _ she thought for no apparent reason, summoning the image of Mr. Ed, flapping his lips comically and singing a jaunty tune, and then she stifled a laugh that would have certainly gone on for too long and devolved into complete hysteria, the cuckoo, schizo, spaz-attack kind, that would end in tears and a trip to the Looney Bin. 

 

_ Jesus Christ, get ahold of yourself.  _

 

“Nuh-No,” Trixie lied finally, still terrified. Bob sighed and let go of her, leaning back against the wall. 

 

“I need a drink,” he said, wiping his lips with his handkerchief. “Lord knows I need a drink. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary…” Trixie was staring towards the door, and Bob just looked at her with those tired eyes. “You cannot go home in that car.”

 

Trixie turned suddenly. “Who says? You? You’re not my fucking mom!” she brayed. She didn’t know why she was so defensive _ ,  _ why she insisted on arguing, if she really was close to vomiting all over her own shoes at the prospect of being a target.  _ Of what?!  _ her mind screamed. That Lincoln wasn’t a Lincoln anymore; it was a fucking hearse. 

 

Trixie groaned with terror. 

 

Bob stared at her dumbly. “I’m taking you home. Don’t be stupid.” 

 

“No,” Trixie said, backing up. Her back pressed against the cold wood of the door, and Bob took a step towards her. “Not unless you tell me  _ exactly  _ what is going on here.” 

 

Bob opened his mouth, and Trixie’s heart lurched hopefully for the second time, but then he sighed in that  _ Sorry, kid, no cigar  _ way and Trixie made a disgusted, angry noise before fumbling for the doorknob. 

 

Bob suddenly reeled back, and Trixie knew he thought she was crazy.  _ Maybe I am _ , she thought with a sick enthusiasm.  _ Yeah, maybe I’m just nuts. Mad cow disease, have you heard of it?  _

 

Trixie was for no reason struck with the memory of when one of Pearl’s dairy cows had gotten mad cow disease, and Pearl, ever morbid, had taken Trixie to see it before her Daddy shot the poor animal. It was alone in a stall, a rope halter around its large head and neck. It stomped around the tiny space, stalking on wobbling legs. Its eyes were bloodshot and glazed in a way even Trixie knew wasn’t healthy. Trixie must have been only ten then. It was looking at the two girls who watched from a distance with contempt, for them and the whole world. It licked its nose and mouth obsessively, like it was hungry, and Trixie remembered thinking it was hungry for meat. That as it ground its flat, large teeth, it wanted to reach out and eat her. The cow stilled for a moment, simply swaying on its haunches, braying miserably. Then it let out a scream that was too human and started tossing its head back and forth and leaping about in its death cage, and Trixie and Pearl had screeched as the cow started to bash its head into the wooden boards, making them splinter, blood trickling out of one ear. As the girls ran away, crying out in fear, Mr. Liaison aimed his rifle and managed to shoot the bovine in the jaw and the shoulder before landing the killing shot. Trixie had nightmares about the mad cow and its untimely death for days afterwards. Trixie thought of the blonde with the shadow-puppet handgun and stifled a scream. 

 

_ (a horse is a horse of course of course until it’s not. until it’s just got a parasite eating its brain) _

 

“No, don’t you fucking dare,” Bob warned, but it was too late. Overcome by panic, Trixie threw the door open and took off in a sprint. Her heart was thrumming so hard in her chest she could feel it in her ears, the rush of blood a gentle  _ woosh _ that was just another dull sound compared to her heaving breaths. The black handkerchief in her hair flew away and fluttered in the wind for a moment before settling with the dust Trixie’s boots kicked up. Her lungs felt like they were exploding. She tried not to scream once again and finally threw herself into the

 

_ (hearse) _

 

car, but she didn’t feel any safer. She wanted to get off of the property and out of the car as fast as humanly possible, and even then... 

 

Still crying, she threw the gear shift back and slammed the gas, then shoved it forward, and she was barreling back down the road, away from Bob. Away from safety. 

 

“...  _ TRIXIE!”  _

 

Trixie finally glanced over at Pearl, who was also crying. Her face was pale, her lips curled in a horrified scowl as tears streamed down her face. “What h-h-happened? You’re scaring me, you motherfucker!”

 

Trixie suddenly stopped sobbing, blinking back her tears. “Danger,” was all she croaked. Pearl wailed, voice wavering like a cartoon ghost, into her hands. “We’re okay,” Trixie lied. “I’m sorry. I’m just mad.” She reached into the cup holder and handed Pearl a napkin, which Pearl gratefully took and began to wipe her eyes and nose with. 

 

“I told you this was a bad idea!” Pearl cried. “I wish I never came! I wish I never told you a-a-anything! It’s so fucking stupid!” 

 

“I know,” Trixie responded. 

 

“I just thought it was gonna be a c-cuh-catfight!” Pearl continued, hugging her knees. Trixie realized with a sort of awe she had only seen Pearl cry once before, during the Mad Cow incident. “And now we’re in  _ danger!  _ Why?”

 

“No, we’re not,” Trixie said. She looked over her shoulder, but there wasn’t anyone following them. “I said, ‘Damn her.’ Katya wasn’t there, she blew the scene just a few minutes ago. And Bob and I fought a little about it.” Maybe lying wasn’t the best idea, but if Pearl kept on crying, Trixie was really going to lose her mind. 

 

“I’m gonna take you home, alright?” Trixie said. The calmness of her own voice scared her. “Come on, you big baby, gum up the waterworks.” 

 

They drove in silence after that, and Pearl’s fearful sobs turned to whines and hiccups, and then quieted altogether. She took more lipstick-blotted napkins and dabbed her eyes or blew her nose with them, which, for some reason, angered Trixie.  _ Using Katya like a snot rag. What a joke.  _

 

The fact that Katya was in some kind of danger eased Trixie’s anger, because she was still, after all, completely lovesick. She would never have gotten so mad at anyone else because she didn’t care enough to. In a strange way, the grim and vague knowledge that Katya was “in danger” comforted her deep down, because it provided an explanation for Katya’s coldness, and Trixie could go on loving Katya like always.

 

This selfish, twisted relief made her want to toss her Oreo cookies into her own lap. 

 

As promised, Trixie pulled up to Pearl’s grand house, and she dimly thought of when they had gotten drunk in her living room and Dusty vomited it all up.  _ How long ago was that? Years, it seems like _ . The house looked inviting, but there was no way Trixie could leave the car there in the driveway; she would be asking for it. She didn’t know what “it” was exactly, but it was Bad News Bears. Pearl slowly got out of the car; she had regained her composure just in time so that her image wasn’t compromised. 

 

“Are my eyes red?”

 

Trixie smiled. “No. Is that all you care about?”

 

“Why, yes, actually.”

 

“Vapidity is the  _ numero uno _ sin, Pearl-old-girl.”

 

“Vapidity isn’t even one of the Seven Deadly Sins, stupid!” Pearl cried. Trixie let herself laugh, and it felt good. Thank God for Pearl. Trixie wanted to say something else, apologize again, blurt out what had happened exactly, but Pearl waved and closed the door with a definitive slam, punctuating the conversation without a word. She didn’t care that much, apparently, or she just wanted to get away from whatever psycho shit Trixie was waist-deep in. Trixie envied that quality, her ability to be so fleeting and self-absorbed when it meant saving herself.  _ That’s actually a sin,  _ Trixie realized with amusement.  _ Envy.  _ She chuckled to herself and opened the glove box to stow the rest of Katya’s napkins. A few bullets rolled out, and Trixie just laughed harder. 

 

Trixie parked the now-filthy car where she had found it without so much as a hiccup and hopped out smoothly. She looked around and puffed her chest; no girls with fake guns around these parts. She thought humorously of the girls jumping out from around the quarters, brandishing water pistols, gleaming electric green and squirting harmless droplets as they shot at her. Trixie whistled and bumped the door closed with her hip—she was feeling just fine. The anger had burnt out, and the fear… Well, it lingered. But she shoved it away, or she thought about water pistols instead. 

 

_ I should put Katya’s keys back,  _ she thought. With a swingin’ step, she walked towards the door and unlocked it, with no look over her shoulder, for the yellow Coyote Chaser was still not in the driveway. For some reason, Trixie was not perturbed.  _ Getting stuff at the store, I bet.  _

 

Trixie placed the keys back on the corkboard and smiled triumphantly. She was free as a bird, not a hair out of place in the whole room. Katya wouldn’t have a clue she was there. Trixie scanned the room with more detail than she had committed previously, when she was blinded by petty rage, and something turned over in her stomach. The scene was wrong, somehow. It reeked. Not physically, but with what a gentle churchgoer might call “malevolence” and what a beach-blonde hippie may refer to as, “bad vibes.” Armed with neither of these words in her vocabulary, Trixie responded with a physical shiver. 

 

The clutter was not the charming Katya-clutter Trixie had grown to recognize. What felt like a million ashtrays all over the room, the dresser with nail polish bottles and cigarettes and hairbrushes covering the entire surface, clothes piled in the corner; that was the good, healthy clutter. What lay before her was genuinely frantic. Katya’s bedclothes had been tossed back and stripped her mattress bare, which was laying askew on its board. It was like someone

 

_ (broke in) _

 

ransacked the place. Hesitantly, Trixie made her way towards the center of the chaos; the small cherry wood desk containing papers strewn over its surface and the disconnected telephone. She sat down on the wooden chair, which creaked in protest, and started to shuffle through the documents. Katya wouldn’t notice, right? It was all helter-skelter anyway. 

 

Most of the papers Trixie didn’t understand. They were legal matters. For some reason, Katya even had her birth certificate, or what was maybe a very good copy of it. There were payments for a lease for an establishment in New York called “The Hog’s Head,” which looked beyond seedy. It was clear the payments were in cash. Katya, Trixie noticed, did not have a checkbook, and Trixie had never seen her enter or leave a bank once.  _ So what? It’s safer that way. Plenty of people do it.  _

 

As Trixie thumbed without interest through more papers, something caught her eye. A plain white envelope, already torn open. There were smears of dirty fingerprints on it. It was addressed to somewhere in Illinois. 

 

_   “K, _

_     I don’t suppose you realize what kind of trouble you left back here. Or maybe you do, and you don’t care. Either way, don’t be surprised by this letter. I knew where you’d end up, but I imagine you’re going to keep going. Call me. I’d prefer not to talk about this through the mail. Dirty rats are always reading secrets, huh, Tiny? _

_   Yours, V”  _

 

“Vee? Kay?”  Trixie said aloud, pronouncing the letters thickly, and then snorting. “ _ Tiny?  _ Boy, is that a cheesy codename.” But Trixie didn’t think it was a codename. To her it rang like an affectionate—a pet name. There was a phone number scribbled on the letter as well, which Trixie gazed at for a moment before turning her attention to the phone. It hung on its cord, the dull hum droning endlessly. Annoyed, Trixie hung it back up with a definitive click. She sifted more, and once the birth certificate circled for the third time, she dropped the papers with a sigh. That was it, she supposed. A few legal documents—probably for the big move—and a sort of ominous letter. That’s it, a done deal. The letter was just as vague about the trouble as everything else was, so why continue?  _ Just get up,  _ Trixie thought madly.  _ Go inside.  _

 

_ One more look-see,  _ something inside snapped back merrily, and she began opening drawers. 

 

Trixie re-ransacked the room. She searched around like a man convinced the world was ending tomorrow, digging through every nook and cranny, practically scouring in between floorboards for some hidden clue.  _ (What in the fuck are you looking for? Pirate treasure?) _

 

No luck. But Trixie kept going. She lifted the bed, crawled on her belly to look under it, pulled drawers out until they reached the stop. She even shuffled through Katya’s underwear drawer with disinterest, and Willam’s voice rang faintly, smug and knowing. Trixie, at her wits end, went to the painting she had hung those centuries ago, painted in little etchings that were red flowers when you looked at it from a distance, and swung it on its string. A sealed envelope as well as numerous newspaper clippings were stuck inside the back frame. Trixie reached her hands out eagerly, and then something stopped her. Perhaps Bob was right. Perhaps sometimes there was shit you shouldn’t stick your nose into.  _ But I got shoved into it anyway,  _ Trixie thought, scooping up the papers.  _ I didn’t have a choice. They brought me into this, whatever it is.  _

 

Trixie felt another tug of remorse as she tore open the envelope, which had no return address. The ripping sound was terrible and loud, and then it was over. A shuffling as Trixie brought the letter out with trembling fingers. 

 

_ “Violet, Ginger, Adore. Everyone, _

_I’m sorry, first of all. I’m pretty far west now, but I won’t say where. I can’t. I trust you, but you know how it is. I’m okay. I’m better than ever, actually. But I’m scared—“_ she scribbled out that word and replaced it with “worried” _“—they’re still looking for me. I’m sure of it, really, I just don’t know if they’ll find me. I didn’t mean to fuck up the deal. I don’t know what happened, I still can’t fucking remember!”_ Trixie could feel Katya’s panic through her fingers, and it made her stomach twist. _“I don’t know, I want to fix it. But it won’t be fixed ‘till I’m dead. I’ve thought about…”_

 

The letter trailed off. There were about three paragraphs left, but they had all been scribbled out so furiously that the paper tore in a few places. Trixie felt the overwhelming urge to cry. At the very end, Katya simply wrote, in slanting letters,  _ “I can’t send this. I’ll just call them.”  _

 

“Then why did you put it in the envelope?” Trixie whispered out loud, her voice cracking. She threw the letter away from her and picked up a long piece of paper. It was a receipt for a list of groceries (feed for the horses, a burlap sack, garbage bags, a new spade…), but on the back there was a to-do list in the same slanting handwriting. 

 

_ TO-DO: _

_ DECIDE IF I’LL GET RID OF GUN  _

_ MEET BOB @ BAR _

_ DECIDE STAY OR GO _

_ IF GO: GET MITYA AND SOME THINGS. CHANGE PLATES. TELL FIRKUSES GOING FOR FUNERAL. SAY GOODBYE TO TRIXIE.  _

 

Trixie’s heart leapt pathetically at seeing her name in Katya’s writing, and her terror turned into gooey adoration for a moment.  _ She thought about me.  _ But it wasn’t enough to comfort her from the rest. One line remained in thoughtful contemplation, looking at her quizzically. 

 

_ IF STAY: ? _

 

Trixie tossed the to-do list away from her with horror as well. Presumably, two of those bullet points were already finished, and it was only a matter of time before…

 

Using trembling hands, her head thudding dully, she took the newspaper clippings. Some nice reading would calm her nerves. Instead, the headlines punched her in the gut, knocking the wind out of her in one swift movement. 

 

**GANGS THREATEN OUR FAIR CITY**

 

**GANG WARS IN OUR STREETS?**

 

**NOTORIOUS GANG LEADER SHOT**

 

Trixie’s breath, unbeknownst to her, was wheezy and short, like a broken whistle blowing without success in her throat. Every word jumped out at her, and even as she tried to read further in the articles, her brain would not let her  _ “GANG… THREATEN… WARS...SHOT”  _ the last word struck her in particular.  _ SHOT.  _ Trixie forced herself to keep reading. 

 

_ Last saturday evening, a top-dog in a prolific gang which calls themselves ‘The Vipers’ was _

 

_ (KABLAM!) _

 

_ gunned down in an alleyway. Peoples affiliated with the gang, who wish to remain anonymous, say the perpetrator fled in a Black 1966 Lincoln, _

 

_ (ARE YOU TRYING TO GET SHOT?!) _

 

_ but no other details have been brought forward. The woman, by the alias ‘Roxxy,’ is in critical condition _

 

_ (Nice going, lady! You killed the ‘ole cow in one go!) _

 

_ with a low chance of recovery. Police are trying to locate other members for questioning, but it appears the rest of ‘The Vipers’ have disbanded. Police chief Michael Creed stated, “I hope our streets are safer with them temporarily laying low, but the long-term outcome is not favorable. After all, one criminal is gone only because another took care of it _

 

_ (Daddy, DADDY! THE COW! COME HELP COME HELP!) _

_ themselves.” _

 

Trixie stopped reading. The whole room was starting to swim in front of her eyes, and she dropped the newspaper clippings. She was acutely aware of her heart pounding like a loud, brassy drum. The telephone rang suddenly, breaking Trixie’s dizziness, and she screamed, but no noise came out. She watched the phone vibrate on its hook and debated letting it ring. But the sound was so loud, her ears, they were ringing, and I’m sure it’s Katya, anyway, or Bob, and—

 

“Hello?” it sounded hoarse. Trixie licked her cracked lips.

 

“Hiii,” the chipper voice on the end crowed. Trixie heard people distantly laughing, the bustle of a large truck passing by. “You finally connected the phone line again! You get scared, Zamo? You piss your fuckin pants when we called? I bet, pussy.” The woman’s voice was an agonizingly slow crawl, but simultaneous hatred and glee dripped off of it, thick and sort of rumbling in her throat. She pronounced “scared” as “sk-aaiir-duh” and “called” as “caaw-uh-led.”

 

Trixie didn’t respond. She couldn’t find words. She simply made a choked noise into the receiver, but the woman kept on talking.

 

“Yeah, and I bet you did when you saw us today. You saw us,  _ di _ -dn’t you? Oh, come on, cat got your tongue?” Trixie realized who she was talking to. She hadn’t imagined it. No, it was real, and it was talking to her. Your honor, we regret to inform you the Insanity Defense is invalid, this young lady is right as rain, but she won’t be for long, Judge. The girl with the shadow-puppet gun and her confidants, they were real, they were dangerous, and they were on the phone. They were separated by only a coiled wire, something that seemed so fragile now, so stupid and terrible.

 

“Snake, more like it!” someone barked, and there was an uproar of laughter.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman continued. “We got what we needed. We’ll be on our way, now. Bai-eeee—“ the vowel was still droning on as the timer on whatever payphone the woman was using ran out. Trixie sat there, blood freezing in her veins, still listening to the maddening  _ hummmmmm _ of the disconnected phone for a few agonizing seconds. She dropped it with delayed horror and it clattered violently against the wall. All the pieces were clicking into place. The cogs were turning, baby, there wasn’t any stopping this machine.

 

Trixie buried her hands in her hair and rested her elbows on the desk, trying to sob, or vomit, but nothing came out. She felt like she was spinning, tumbling, falling down a staircase, and the rails kept slipping beneath her fingers. Bob’s voice chimed dreamily, “There are things out there that would make your  _ fucking head spin.”  _ Her throat was a pinhole, her breath whistling unnervingly again.

 

And then Katya was in the doorway, blocking the sunshine, looming over Trixie’s crumpled figure. Trixie took her hands away and held them in almost movie-like shock in front of her mouth, touching her face with numb fingers as her mouth dropped open.

 

Katya swallowed with a  _ click  _ and just muttered, “Baby...” The purple bags under her gray eyes and her pallid complexion gave the impression she might have been a zombie. But she was all too alive. Katya closed the door, took a gentle step forward, hands up in  _ don’t shoot, officer, I’m unarmed  _ fashion, and Trixie screamed silently. She screamed and screamed and screamed. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	9. The Score

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo everyone im sorry this chapter was so late!! ive been like... mulling it over and stressing about it for weeks lmao. i wanted this chapter to be really good because its sort of pivotal, you know? i hope it lives up to your guys's standards!! its written a little different than normal because it's katyas POV so i hope its not too jarring. thank you again for all your support and comments and kudos, they keep me going for real <3

_ “GIVE ME A KISS FOR  _ good luck?” 

 

Violet was gnawing at her leather glove methodically, like a cow chewing cud, and her eyes flickered up with uncertainty when Katya spoke. She pressed her lips into a tight line and seemed to waver, her mind swaying and flipping and running too fast for her to say anything. She cupped her hands around Katya’s face and looked at her intensely. 

 

“Please, just be careful,” she pleaded. Katya’s own stomach was convulsing, but she nodded and patted Violet’s shoulder, hoping it was reassuring. Violet kissed Katya and her lips were cold. 

 

Ginger clapped both women on the shoulders, her large hands dragging them apart some distance. “This is good, you guys,” she mumbled. “This is good.”

 

“We’ll be safe,” Adore cried from her table, where she was serving one of the regulars a martini. “You know nobody’s gonna step on our toes with those guys on our side. Not even the coppers! Shit, Katya, this isn’t just good. It’s  _ groovy!” _

 

“Shut up, you dumb fuckin’ hippie,” Katya said coolly, and a wave of laughter swept through the bar. Feeling uplifted, Katya stood a little straighter and beamed at her congregation. Violet was close by her side, hunched and twisting the fabric of her dress. Katya’s nerves were wound so tight she could feel it in her hands, like she was spring loaded, but at least half of them were nervous excitement. A permanent sneer was on her face.  _ This is groovy indeed.  _

 

Katya swiped a glass filled to the brim with scotch off the bar counter and held it high above her head. A few drops of the amber liquid rolled down her muscular arms, and she used her other hand to slam her fist down hard on the wood counter. The bar’s occupants turned their heads and raised their alcohol in similar salute, their hardened faces shining, busted lips twisted into something strange—hope. 

 

“To the filth of society, ladies and gentlemen! To the fucking shit on the bottom of the government’s heel, huh? The gum under the table!” 

 

The twisted confederacy cheered and threw their glasses higher into the air, light reflecting off their cracked glasses and murky beer bottles and back onto the walls around them. Katya’s heart was thumping worryingly hard, drumming in her ears, and Violet had placed a tentative hand on her back, but she smiled wider. She bared her teeth in an unintentional impression of the boar’s head behind her, furry and glass-eyed. 

 

“I mean, that’s dramatic, isn’t it?” Katya relayed. “But it’s true! Life ain’t easy, is it, boys? Yeah, sometimes it rides you long and hard and puts you away wet, but so what?! We have fun!” The criminals howled with manic agreement. 

 

“To you, Katya,” Violet offered quietly. She gestured to everyone with a wide, sweeping motion, and then placed her hand on her own heart. “You’re a good boss.”

 

Katya’s eyes suddenly stung with tears. She looked wildly out at her audience, and her arm became shaky, spilling more alcohol. She brought it down and the rim to her lips, chugging hard, letting it burn her throat, and when she saw everyone else drink in unison her stomach flipped queasily. 

 

Katya had wanted to be a school teacher when she was a little kid. She loved her teachers to death, loved them perhaps more than her own family, and she wanted to be that for someone. But then things got bad as she got older, and she had forgotten all about it. Until that moment. Until she saw the childlike hope coming from some of the toughest people that side of the country, and it was all wrong. Katya wanted to be a beacon of hope for little kids with bad homes like her, but did it make a difference? She had good teachers, and here she was, a gun on her hip and a band of gang members at her side.

 

She put down the empty glass and looked hard-eyed at Violet. “Well.” She clapped and picked up a briefcase next to the door. “Let’s rock and roll.” 

 

—

 

Katya had made clear that she was going to do this alone, and at first Violet seemed to think the idea was all well and good, but as Katya got into the car she began having doubts. She asked if she wanted Violet to just wait in the car, maybe in case of a getaway, or if things went south, but Katya stopped her with the raise of a hand. She had been tempted to point out how soft Violet was being for how much she had criticized Katya for being too soft, but decided against it. Instead, she hugged her lover and reassured her that she would be just fine on her own. After the incident, Katya wished at first that Violet  _ had  _ been there, berated herself for not letting her tag along, but as of late she had decided she probably made the right decision. 

 

Katya and Violet had been “a thing” on-and-off for some odd three years. Sometimes they would both be separated for months at a time, purely platonic, and other times Violet would scream at Katya for fucking another girl despite the unspoken mutual agreement between them that they could have “benefits” with others, and Katya would hold her in bed and tell her she was sorry, and she was. Katya cared about Violet, cared about her so deeply her stomach knotted with worry for her, and Violet was more attached than she let on. She was in awe of Katya, as most were, but she had the wit and sensitivity to be one of her equals, and Katya loved that about her. Despite the fighting, they almost never had bad times together. They were a lovely duo. 

 

Katya took one hand off the steering wheel and looked at her watch. 3:00 A.M, the hands of Mickey Mouse told her, but Katya could have easily told by how high the moon was in the sky and the quiet streets that were normally bustling. There was still plenty of activity, a few women standing on street corners, leaned demurely against street poles, cars driving slowly past, even a police car or two. Katya couldn’t blame them—they were on the shady side. But just as easily, she knew how to avoid them. She kept driving. 

 

The drive was short. Within minutes Katya was pulling into a dim alley and keying the ignition. She drummed her fingertips on the dashboard for a moment, then lit a cigarette. The walls of the alley were coated with grime and the floors littered in all of the drippings of previous crime. Bullet shells, needles, plastic baggies, pill bottles the works. It was pretty sad, but Katya didn’t flinch; she was right next to a dumpster and thought with sullen amusement that perhaps there was a body in it, but as she waited alone in the dark of that alley, the thought became not-so-funny very quickly.

 

At some point, a lady has to think about when her time runs out, and the numbers on Katya’s clock were always wildly flipping. Sometimes, she felt she had all the time in the world, like when she mused what it would be like once she and her comrades were under The Vipers’ protection. She was invincible. The government couldn’t touch her, and neither could anybody else. But other times, like that moment, alone in a crime-ridden and claustrophobic hallway, it was uncertain. The clock could be at five minutes, and she wouldn’t know, and suppose it was?  _ Well, Violet gets my stuff, I guess. I oughta write a will. Nothing official, but I’ll tell her about it. Shit, maybe I should have before I left. Have I got a pen and paper—?  _

 

There was a sharp rapping on Katya’s window, and she surprisingly didn’t flinch. She clamped her cigarette in her teeth and twisted her head around in time to see the long, mauve colored nails of her guest and the shimmer of her dress as she walked around to the passenger side of the Lincoln. Katya leaned over to unlock the door, and the other woman slid in like the vehicle belonged to her and Katya was simply her chauffeur. Her sleek black hair dripped over her shoulders and down her back. 

 

“Katya. It’s a pleasure, Roxxy,” Katya said smoothly, extending her arm. Roxxy took her roughened hand with her soft one and let Katya shake it heartily. 

 

“Likewise.” She dropped her hand and had suddenly procured lighter, a rolled joint in her other hand that Katya had somehow not noticed. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

 

_ Cordial. That’s a good sign.  _ “Be my guest, Miss Andrews.” Roxxy lit up, and Katya watched patiently as the other woman took a few drags and looked contemplatively ahead of her. 

 

“Alaska wanted to be here,” Roxxy said suddenly, and Katya straightened. “She decided to go on a little date instead. I tells her, ‘Wait until we got the money, and then you’ll have a  _ really  _ nice date,’ and she won’t listen! Fuckin’ dumbass.” 

 

Katya was silent for a moment, sure this was some kind of test of allegiance. “Well, she’s already got a lot of hard earned cash, doesn’t she?” Roxxy flitted her eyes towards Katya and huffed. 

 

“Guess so.” She sighed and flicked the joint outside the car window. “You have the money, don’t you?” Katya nodded eagerly and jerked her thumb towards a suitcase in the backseat. 

 

“Yuh. What you asked for, plus a little extra from yours truly. And speaking of,” she reached down to the floor of the car and brought out a paper bag. Inside was a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and cheese. 

 

Roxxy eyed the bag anxiously. “You trying to poison me or something?” She chuckled, and Katya took that as an invitation to laugh as well. 

 

_ “Au contraire!  _ Just a gift. I’ll even have some now, if you want,” Katya offered, handing the bag to her business partner. “It’s a custom from the Motherland, comrade. We break bread together.”

 

Roxxy tittered a high laugh. “You’re so full of shit, you’ve never even set foot in Europe, I can guaran-fucking-tee it.” 

 

Katya was not about to tell Roxxy she was right, so instead she preoccupied herself by tapping ash into her ashtray and finishing off her cigarette with a smug giggle. 

 

To Katya’s genuine surprise, they really did end up breaking bread together. Roxxy seemed pleased to be taken care of and offered a gift, and was more than willing to share in the company. As they drank and filled their stomachs, Roxxy was more and more friendly, becoming the “ball of sunshine” she was so frequently described as. Katya was even brave enough to crack a few jokes at her expense, and Roxxy shot right back. 

 

“Jesus, I knew you were the one who bribed the chief of police! How’d you do it, Katie?”

 

“Katya, you dumb cunt. And I did what many fine women here do, you dig? Gave ‘em some sugar, if I may be crude.”

 

Roxxy barked a laugh and swallowed some cheese. “What are you, a professor? Shit, never knew a whore with a vocabulary.”

 

Katya chuckled and stretched out in her seat, lighting her second cigarette and hearing her bones crack before settling. The car was warm and her stomach was pleasantly full. The wine heated her cheeks and made her face cherubic, despite its sharp features and high cheekbones, and Roxxy seemed equally pleased. It was 3:30 A.M now, and Katya thought she could easily doze off. 

 

Roxxy sighed, sensing the time passed as well, and tried to regain formality. “Well,” she said after a deep breath, “I really oughta get going. Alaska’ll be back soon, she’ll want to know how it went...”

 

“Of course!” Katya cried. She snapped back to alertness and opened her car door, “I’ll see you on your way.” She thumped her boots onto the slick pavement and slammed her door, then opened the back one to retrieve the suitcase. When she noticed Roxxy was still comfortably in her seat, Katya walked around the car once more to open her door and allow the woman to step out.  _ Christ, she can’t even open a door by herself? _

 

Katya ran her hands over the black leather suitcase for a moment, feeling the bumps under her hands. She then cuddled with the golden clasps, listening to them click in rhythm, watching their dim shine shift. Before Roxxy got impatient, Katya handed it over. Her sweaty palms squeaked as the precious cargo, her  _ livelihood _ , slipped away from her. 

 

Roxxy took it without a word and flicked open the clasps, the suitcase precariously balanced on her arm, and began rifling through the wads of fifties and hundreds that Katya had triple-checked for the right amount. 

 

“We good?” Katya asked after a moment. She licked her lips, some of her red lipstick coming off with it. 

 

“I think so.” Katya breathed hard out of her nose and let her hands clasp behind her, tip-toeing slowly backwards. 

 

“Well, pleasure doing—“

 

“Wait a minute.” Roxxy was rubbing a bill between her fingers, and Katya’s heart lurched. 

 

“What’s up?” Katya asked, hoping her voice wasn’t wavering. The wine was burning in her stomach. 

 

Roxxy glanced back up at Katya with hard, glassy eyes. “Is this a joke?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

_ “Is this a fucking joke?”  _ The suitcase fell with a sickening clatter, and tens upon tens of bills spilled onto the road. Katya watched in horror as the thousands of dollars fluttered to the ground and soaked into the stagnant puddles of the alley. She felt her heart fall into her stomach. 

 

“What are you doing?!” Katya brayed, her voice hoarse. “What’s going on? I counted it all—“

 

“You must think I’m  _ stupid!”  _ Roxxy cried, and there was something behind the anger in her voice. Hurt. She moved surprisingly fast and before Katya could register the ruffle of her dress, Roxxy’s hand was around her throat. 

 

“You’re funny. You’re hilarious!” As Katya dug her heels into the ground and tried to grab at Roxxy’s hands, Roxxy wheeled her around and slammed her into the brick wall. Katya yelped pathetically, her spine rubbing against the rough brick until her skin was raw. And then Roxxy was squeezing hard, and Jesus Christ, she was stronger than she looked; Katya couldn’t breathe. She tried to grab at Roxxy’s hands again, but Roxxy ended the attempt with a swift stomp to Katya’s foot that ended up fracturing a bone. Katya gurgled in pain and dropped her hands. 

 

“Trying to give me  _ fake money!”  _ Roxxy shrieked. Spit flew from her lips and onto Katya’s face. Katya shook her head frantically.  _ It’s not fake!  _ she was trying to scream,  _ It’s all real! I would never give anyone, much less you, even one phony dollar! Never, ever!  _

 

Instead, she just went, “Guhhhh,” and had her head slammed into the wall much harder. It made a terrible cracking sound, and Katya was dumbly aware of warmth trickling down the back of her neck and down her shirt. 

 

“I should kill you,” Roxxy was hissing, but it was so distant. “Kill you, kill you,  _ I’ll fucking kill you…”  _

 

And then Roxxy was lying in a pool at Katya’s feet and Katya was holding her gun in trembling hands. Katya later found out she had emptied four rounds into Roxxy by counting how many were left in the magazine, but just like all other memories of the incident, she could not recall firing even a single one. 

 

Katya blinked slowly. The world was swimming back into vision, and her head was pounding so hard she had to sit down. She didn’t want to, but she had to, and so she slumped down and cried out at the pain in her spine and head. She was practically deaf, ears still ringing, and she just sat there for a few moments, head hanging between her knees and the gun limp in her hands. If someone came upon the scene, they would have thought both of them were dead. 

 

Roxxy was the only dead one, though—or, at least, she was dying. When Katya came to fully, the first thing she could really determine with a clear head were the sounds. There were these awful, grotesque noises; whimpers and choked sobs, shuffling as Roxxy twitched at her feet. She was convulsing like a woman possessed. Katya shot to her feet in horror and aimed her gun again, as if she had come across a dying animal, and contemplated putting her out of her misery. Ending it sooner rather than later. But then she just stepped over Roxxy and the money, got back into the car, and drove. She drove back down the same streets, past the same unlucky hookers, all the way back to the Hog’s Head. When she arrived, all other patrons had left, but Violet was waiting for her anxiously. 

 

“How—“ was all Violet managed before she saw the blood and bruises, and then she sobbed and collapsed, and Katya, with her body aching and mouth tasting of vomit, had brought her upstairs and into bed. She watched and soothed Violet until she fell asleep, and then went to shower. Katya had still not spoken a word. 

 

When she took off her boots, there was a bill stuck to the bottom of one. Red spattered all over the face of Mister Franklin.  Katya removed it with shuddering fingers and held it up to the fluorescent lightbulb of her dingy bathroom, and she laughed. She laughed until she coughed up blood due to her near-death asphyxiation (and surely her smoking habit), and because it was  _ so _ funny, she laughed some more. 

 

—

 

“They came after me. Shit, did they come after me. They destroyed my bar. They shot everything, they almost—they almost  _ got me,  _ Trixie. They were  _ this  _ close, and I put everyone else in danger, too. So I left. Christ, I had to! I had no other choice, did I? I killed someone in cold fucking blood. It was an honest accident, I swear to you, but the law don’t care about people like me making accidents.”

 

Katya watched with great pain as Trixie cried and sniffed, now sitting on Katya’s bare mattress.  _ My poor baby,  _ she thought absently, and moved to sit next to Trixie, but she stopped midway, flinching. Trixie was probably scared of her. Trixie saw her for what she was, now, laid out on the table, cat out of the bag; Katya was a killer. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, there were cold hard facts. Elementary, my dear Watson, it was just elementary. 

 

But Trixie looked up at her, tears glistening in her eyes, and sobbed again before raising her arms out towards Katya, begging silently. Katya swooped down and buried Trixie in her chest, gently ushering her down onto the bed and rolling over so she could hold her closer. She could never seem to hold Trixie close enough.

 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Katya cooed. She held one arm far away, the one holding the cigarette, and stretched so she could put it out in an ashtray. She didn’t need it right now, and even if she did, Trixie needed her more. She snapped out of the days’ old trance of self-pity and terror, and hated herself for not doing so sooner. For having to wait until Trixie was on the verge of a mental break, hearing the most upsetting thing she’d ever heard since Cherry died, Katya presumed. 

 

“Calm down.”

 

“I cuh-cuh—“

 

“You  _ can _ ,” Katya insisted. “Deep breath. Come on, now.” Katya sighed with relief as Trixie finally inhaled deep, sputtering, filling her lungs, and then exhaling again. She did that a few more times, and Katya just kept on holding her, brushing her lips over the back of Trixie’s neck, tasting and smelling her perfume. Trixie’s sobs ebbed away, and then she rolled over so she could face Katya while they held one another, reaching out to tuck some of Katya’s hair behind her ear. It was so domestic that Katya’s skin crawled. 

 

“What are we going to do?” Katya whispered. She didn’t expect Trixie to know, but Katya needed the reassurance, even if it was shallow. 

 

“I think… I think they’re leaving,” Trixie said slowly. “On th-the phone, she said, ‘we’ll be on our way,’ or something like that. Maybe they just wanted to scare you, like they know it’s not worth it to actually come get you. Christ, Katya, are you  _ sure  _ she’s dead?”

 

Katya worried her lip between her teeth and sighed. “I think so, Trixie. I never heard a person make sounds like those.” Something flickered behind Trixie’s eyes, and Katya wondered if she was thinking about Cherry. 

 

“You… Katya, you really don’t remember?” Trixie asked quietly. “Please, be honest. I can’t take more lying.” 

 

Katya nodded solemnly and sat back up. Trixie didn’t move to follow, and Katya guessed that some common sense was taking over. 

 

“Not a thing. Not the actual shooting, anyway,” Katya explained. “I think it’s because she hit my head so hard, or ‘cause she was choking me, or just… that my brain blocked it out, I guess.” 

 

Trixie was silent. 

 

“Katya—“

 

“No, I would never hurt you—“

 

“I wasn’t going to say that!” Trixie’s lower lip wobbled again. Katya wasn’t convinced. Trixie took a deep breath. “This is just… I’m processing, okay? It’s a lot.”

 

“Well, alright.” Katya lit a cigarette with numb fingers. “Take your time, honey.” 

 

As Katya pretended to be preoccupied staring at her painting hanging off its hinges, smoke curling around her head, she braced herself for the worst possible reaction. She was waiting for the, “I can’t do this, actually,” or the classy and simple, “You should leave.” It hurt—sure, it hurt—but it made perfect sense. Katya’s clock was once again swinging perpetually, from years to minutes, every time she stepped outside. It may have very well been that Alaska and her motley crew had decided to just fuck with Katya—psychological torture, maybe. They were just crazy enough to try it. Perhaps they would jump Katya sooner or later and beat her until she was blind in both eyes, but even  _ that  _ was fine. Katya would hail-mary and say-uncle until the cows came home, and if she came home with a ruptured spleen and some missing teeth, she’d consider it a victory. 

 

Katya was hopeful, but not too optimistic—that would be far too light of a punishment. 

 

“Please stay,” Trixie pleaded suddenly. Her voice was hardly a whisper. Katya blinked in surprise and opened her mouth before closing it again. “I think we’ll be alright. I’ll make sure you’re okay. You can sleep in my room, cause I think… I think, if that was them the other night, they were trying to get in here. Whatever you need. Just stay.” 

 

“Trixie—“

 

“If you’re worried about me, don’t be!” Trixie cried. “Please. Things will be fine, okay? We’re… fine.” She dragged her thumb over Katya’s bottom lip and touched their noses together. She didn’t sound convinced. 

 

“No, I’m sorry,” Katya whispered reflexively. She realized a lump was forming in her throat, and she tried to speak around it. “I’m sorry I lied, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t want to drag you into this, that’s why. It’s not fair, not to you, not to your family…” she trailed off.  _ Get it together, come on.  _ She blinked back her tears violently and sighed. “I’m just so sorry.” 

 

Trixie only shook her head and hugged Katya tighter, and that made Katya want to cry harder. She didn’t deserve it. 

 

“Katya,” Trixie whispered. “It’s okay, like I said. God, I don’t—I shouldn’t have pried. I shouldn’t have snooped. I’m a bad, bad friend, and I’m sorry.” 

 

Katya gave a wan smile and shifted her eyes, felt them rolling around like ball bearings in her skull. “I’m a bad  _ person, _ honey. And you shouldn’t hang around me like you do.” 

 

Trixie suddenly sobbed again, violently, and hugged Katya so tight Katya’s spine popped. “Don’t say that!” Trixie cried. “Oh, don’t you say a thing like that!”  _ She sounds like her mother,  _ Katya thought, and decided against telling Trixie so. “You’re not bad. You’re good, Katya, you’re so good that—“ she faltered, looking embarrassed, and picked up somewhere else. “And I would hang around you no matter what! Even if you wanted to kill me, I…”

 

Trixie’s words died in her throat again, and her weepy eyes were somehow murky and clear at the same time. “Oh. Oh, I’m crazy, aren’t I?” 

 

Katya smiled a little and blew out a breath. 

 

“Aren’t I?” Trixie repeated. “I told you. I told you by the haybaler—“

 

“Forget the stinking haybaler,” Katya said. She watched Trixie’s mismatched eyes, saw them looking at her, saw how her lower lip jutted out, and felt a surge of love so strong it squeezed tight around her gut. “If you’re crazy, so am I, okay? And that is to say, we aren’t crazy at all,” she added for reassurance. 

 

Trixie smirked a little and snuffled. “I think maybe you are, still.” 

 

Katya pursed her lips in mock pout, but her eyes were smiling. “Crazy about you,” she whispered, not really knowing what she was saying, and not caring. She was tired. Her bones ached and protested whenever she shifted, and Katya thought with a flit of worry that perhaps her lifestyle was causing her to age rapidly. That before she knew it, gray would pepper her dirty blonde locks and her smile lines would be permanently etched into her face.  _ If Trixie likes it, it’ll be alright. It’ll be quite alright. _ And then random images of them growing old and crowing like the kooks they were in rocking chairs together knocked around in her mind like a pinball, and again, it was quite alright. 

 

“Crazy a- _bout_ _youu_ ,” Katya said once more, her sing-song voice rising with uncertain pitchiness, muffled by the skin of Trixie’s shoulder. Katya kissed her freckles and patted her thigh comfortingly. 

 

“Sleep, you bad old bear,” Trixie murmured. Her voice had that slurred, dreamy quality as well, the telltale one that someone could no longer keep their eyes open. And it was true, Trixie’s eyes had fluttered closed. Katya could see them twitch lightly as her eyes still rolled around, could see the spatter of cream shadow glinting faintly on the lid, and kissed both of them. 

 

Worry still gnawed at the back of Katya’s mind, simply drugged by Katya’s sleepy stupor, but Katya could not have panicked if she wanted to. If they broke down her door now, so be it. She just wanted to sleep with Trixie (in the most innocent meaning of the phrase), with her 

 

_ (what? what is she? more than a friend, certainly, but what? you can’t say it. won’t admit it. she’s not like violet and you know it.) _

 

employer, and someone she felt obliged to hold and love and protect for whatever strange, compelling reason God wanted her to. Katya sighed and buried her face into Trixie’s neck, stifling a nervous groan.  _ That sounds like wedding vows, for Chrissake,  _ she thought sickly.  _ And you don’t wanna get married. What’ll the girls think? _

 

_ Fuck them,  _ her heart hissed back.  _ Fuck them six ways to Sunday, man. Since when did you give a shit? _

 

_ Since always, sister.  _

 

_ Yeah, right. What a joke. Get over yourself.  _

 

Trixie in a wedding dress, what a sight for sore eyes! All pink and glowing, the tulle and ribbon cascading down her back and waist in elegant waves, perhaps fluffing out at her hips with a crinkling petticoat, or flowing down over her legs and pooling and dragging at her feet, little flowers in her hair

 

_ (stop it right now) _

 

and her pretty face, wet with happy-tears. To love and to hold, to love and to hold, to love

 

_ (shut up!) _

 

and to hold. 

 

Part of Katya wanted to take her little wife with her back to New York. To tote Trixie around and shower her with all the gifts she could ever want, buying her clothes and a lifestyle Trixie only saw on T.V. And everyone else would treat Trixie like a princess, too, because whoever didn’t would get a good talking-to from Katya and a broken nose. Of course, Katya would fuck her every night, and everybody would know it. Trixie would pull down her skirt and walk with a bit of a limp, her face pink because everyone would know exactly why, and it would just get Katya wanting to fuck her again. 

 

_ (SHUT UP! IT WON’T HAPPEN! IT CAN’T!) _

 

_ But I can pretend _ , Katya thought, now delirious as her consciousness swam and dipped.  _ That’ll be quite alright.  _

  
  



	10. Two Shots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIXIE FIGURED SHE WAS more than a little out of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hot n fresh new chapter!! i was suddenly really reinvigorated to write and i wrote this chapter in a Fervor. i really enjoy this one, and i hope you guys do, too!!!

_TRIXIE FIGURED SHE WAS_ more than a little out of her mind.

 

“Trissy?”

 

Trixie looked up from her embroidery and accidentally pricked her finger as the needle came up. She hissed and jammed the finger into her mouth for a moment. Ruth was standing in front of where Trixie was seated on her bed, and then sat down, looking at her big sister hopefully.

 

Trixie looked back down and continued the cross-hatching that was going to become a little ribbon wrapped around a calico cat’s neck. “Yes, Ruthanne?”

 

“When were you first keen for somebody?” she asked. Trixie’s eyes widened a little—what a strange question. But not too strange, she supposed. Ruth was almost twelve; a bookish girl, but bold enough to ask direct questions.

 

Trixie paused her stitching and blew out a breath. “Why, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe when I was around fifteen.” A lie.

 

“And you don’t like anyone now?”

 

“Why? Are you reading about it in your books?”

 

Ruth shrugged uneasily. “Yeah, I guess. And I was just wondering. The boys at school, they always talk about it, and the girls, too. So I’m trying to figure out an average age.”

 

“Mhm,” Trixie hummed. “And you’re not worried about yourself at all?”

 

“No.”

 

“Good.” She went back to her needlework.

 

“Margaret likes that boy Daniel from church,” Ruth said matter-of-factly. Trixie smiled at this, wanly. How nice it would be if _she_ could have a thing for a boy at church. A gentle boy, who would court her slowly, taking her to lunch and watching reruns of _I Love Lucy_ on T.V at night. And then one day he would shuffle his shoes and ask her stepfather if he could marry Trixie, and Mike Firkus would wholeheartedly give his blessing, and that would be it.

 

“Does she?”

 

“Uh-huh!” Ruth said, folding her arms. She opened her notebook, and Trixie saw multiple names there. She didn’t say anything.

 

“Well, Margaret is fourteen,” Trixie mused. “But I think she should wait longer to be seeing him. Until she’s an adult.”

 

“Yeah,” Ruth sighed, and touched her cheeks, rubbing them, as they had become slightly pink. Trixie nodded solemnly, and suddenly Ruth said, “Mama says you oughta get married, Trissy.”

 

The needle came up through the white fabric again. Trixie grabbed it with calloused fingers, and a trail of red bled out of its eye as she pulled it through. “Does she?” Trixie repeated.

 

“I heard her,” Ruth continued, and she was now talking very fast, like she was spilling a long-held secret. “She was talking to Daddy. He said… well, he said that now that we got Miss Katherine, we don’t…”

 

“Spit.”

 

“That we don’t need your help as much, is all! The farm’s doing good, Trissy. I’m sure it’s really nice, you not having to work so much, you know?” Ruth was looking with desperation up at her older sister, trying to salvage the grim confession, but Trixie kept her eyes down.

 

“And Mama says, ‘Well, she should find a nice boy soon, and she’ll settle down.’ She said you always make the boys run away with your… behavior. Isn’t that funny? That was all. She… Trissy?”

 

Trixie had stood up abruptly and set her needlework with gentle repose down on her chair.

 

“You tell Mama and your Daddy this,” she said coldly. “I’m _never_ getting married. Never-ever. If they want me gone so bad, fuck—“

 

_“Trixie!”_

 

“—I’ll leave by myself. They told me just a year or so ago that I _couldn’t_ leave, that they need me around to take care of you and the farm. But shit, if Miss Katherine can take care of it, I’ll be on my way.”

 

Ruth shot to her feet. “That’s not it!” she cried, and her breath was hitching like she was going to sob. Trixie felt bad. She knew somewhere that there was no need to take this out on Ruth, that Ruth was simply the messenger, the younger sister who needed Trixie’s guidance and, indeed, felt bad for keeping a secret from her. “Duh-Don’t leave! Don’t run away! Oh, God, forget I told you—“

 

“Relax!” Trixie barked. She took her trusty red-flannel trapper hat off of her dresser and placed it on her head. “I’m just going to the barn.”

 

Ruth wiped the snot from her nose and quieted her cries. “You promise? You swear?”

 

“Cross my heart, hope to die, Annie.”

 

Trixie was being earnest, she _did_ in fact go to the barn, but only because she was sure Katya would be there. Katya rarely ran errands anymore; too dangerous. But it had been a month now and the town was as quiet as ever.

 

“It’s me,” Trixie announced as she ducked under the sloped wooden beams of the doorframe, though Birdie’s snuffling and panting would have been a good indication.

 

“It always is,” Katya said, and her voice was tired but pleased. She was pitching hay into the stalls of their animals, who she had also fitted with blankets. The slight cold of October seemed menial compared to the chilliness that early November was already bringing, and soon enough there would be snow up to their waists. Katya’s breath plumed out in front of her and broke on her face, and her cheeks were nipped pink by the cold. Katya paused her work and stretched her hands, which curled out stiffly like claws, then rubbed her numb face with them.

 

“Me and Michael have got to go on that hunting trip soon,” she said suddenly. “Before the snow comes in. I don’t want there being a chance of getting snowed out up there…”

 

“Oh, God, don’t _go,_ then!” Trixie exclaimed. She had crossed the barn and grabbed Katya’s freezing hands herself, putting them on her own warm cheeks. “You know I don’t like hunting.”

 

Katya shook her head and made Trixie do the same. “Don’t worry, we’ll bring home a nice little Bambi for you!”

 

“No!”

 

“And his mom, how about that? Two for one deal, baby, fuh- _ree_ of charge!”

 

“Stop it!” Trixie wailed, and for revenge, took one of her own hands that was steadily dropping in temperature and shoved it up Katya’s shirt, against her warm and toned stomach. Katya shrieked and leapt away, sucking in her breath, trying to escape the chill.

 

“Cruel!” Katya yelped. “I was joking, only joking!”

 

Trixie retracted her hand with a furrow of her brow and stuck it under her own arm to warm it again. “You are _so_ bad.”

 

“To the very bone.” Then, Katya’s smirk fell a bit, and she looked more earnestly at Trixie. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Trixie answered quickly. “Ruth got on my nerves a little bit, that’s all. Hey, what do you say we go to the bar?” Trixie winced a bit as Katya’s face turned even colder; she surely knew that if Trixie was asking to subdue herself with alcohol, that things were not as fine as she let on. But Katya also knew not to pry.

 

“I think I want some cocoa instead,” Katya said briskly. “How about that? We could go to the store, even get marshmallows--”  
  
“Katya.” Katya looked genuinely dismayed. “It’s been a month. I haven’t seen them, not even a car or a small robbery anywhere. I even went back to the bar--”   
  
“You went _alone?”_

 

“And asked Jinx about it. She says yeah, I saw a couple rough kids, but they said they were just passing through. And they _did,_ Katya, they must have gone further West.”

 

Katya fumbled in her pocket for a moment and took out a peppermint, wrapped in crinkly clear cellophane which she tore off before sticking the candy into her mouth. She had told Trixie they were her version of sunflower seeds, a way to wean off smoking, but Trixie was sure Katya was smoking even _more_ and used the peppermint to try and clear her breath of it. She rolled it around for a moment before she spoke.

 

“I don’t know, Trixie. Something stinks, it just does. And I don’t think…” she looked sheepishly up at the taller girl. “I don’t think… pretending it’s not there… will make it go away.”

 

Trixie wanted to remain calm, but she was aware her face was screwing up with indignation. She folded her arms across her chest and huffed. “I’m _not_ pretending it isn’t there!” she said. “I know it’s there, I think about it all the _time._ I think about _you_ all the time, Katya.”

 

Katya looked guilty, and Trixie supposed she was. _Guilty as a person could ever get, and here I am, putting my hand up her shirt. Would she be so nice to me back in New York?_

 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Katya said, wrapping her arms around Trixie’s waist. Trixie sank into her, smelled the spice and smoke on her and wanted to stay there. She wanted _Katya_ to stay, despite everything. Katya had told her every day that it was her last to stay, that by tomorrow she would have to pack up and head out but don’t worry, I’ll write, but the day never came. Trixie would wake up and Katya would still be nestled in her arms, and Trixie knew Katya didn’t have any _real_ intention to pack up and go without a trace. Trixie felt the promises’ hollowness by now, but they still stung her with fear. They frightened her almost as much as her fear that her and Katya would be killed in the middle of the night, or even worse, kidnapped and tormented and _then_ mercifully killed, and that was bad. The fact the two problems—being murdered and Katya packing her bags and leaving—were even _somewhat_ on the same level of terribleness was bad. That was what made her feel more than a little out of her mind.

 

_(mad cow disease, have you heard of it?)_

 

“We can go,” Katya finally breathed. “Might be nice to get out, I guess. But I need to shower. I smell like a sweaty barn.”  
  
“A sweaty barn and cigarettes and peppermint,” Trixie teased, lips brushing Katya’s jaw. “You’re gonna burn this place down one day, with my poor horses and my poor cow. Cause you’re _bad.”_

 

“I guess I am,” Katya said, and kissed Trixie sweetly before putting her freezing hand up Trixie’s blouse and pressing it against her soft, warm stomach until she squealed and regretfully pushed her away.

 

—

 

Trixie was concerned about having to keep a low profile with Katya out in public, making sure nothing looked suspicious, but The Ginger Snap was hardly occupied. “I guess not many people are getting slammed on tuesday afternoons,” Katya had said as they slid into their respective barstools, and Trixie had laughed, but it made her feel a little sick. A little wrong.

 

She had already downed a shot (with a disapproving look from Jinx) and warmth was blooming pleasantly in her gut. She hummed along haltingly to The Angel’s _My Boyfriend’s Back,_ a song she had loved so much as a younger teenager that she had it on a twelve-inch single. Katya was sipping at a vodka tonic that must have had only a drop of alcohol in it, to Trixie’s surprise and dismay. She had sort of (really) hoped that Katya would get drunk with her.

 

_But that wouldn’t be any good Miss Trixie. The last time she got good and drunk with someone had been a hootenanny-and-a-half, huh?_

 

Trixie waved down another shot of whiskey and threw it back gratefully, letting it burn all the way down her throat, and gave a grim smile to nobody but herself. Her father’s blood was still pumping good and true in her veins, its love for alcohol and all. She whipped her head around towards Katya and smirked a little. Katya had her head tilted and her lips pursed slightly, but her expression was unreadable.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Trixie said.

 

“Like what?”

 

_“That!”_

 

Katya placed her fingers under her eyes and pulled down slightly, exposing a ribbon of pink flesh, before letting her eyes roll back until only whites showed, blank save for a few scattered pink hairline veins. “How about this?”

 

“Abso- _lutely_ not.”

 

As Katya let her icy blues roll like the images on a slot machine back to the front of her skull, someone trilled. _“Trix-eee!”_

 

Katya spun in her seat like somebody had given her a huge push, and Trixie saw with a dull wave of nausea that her hand was on her pistol, the clear grip bearing the faded image of Saint Mary. She relaxed just as quickly, though; it was only Willam, with

 

 _“Dusty!”_ Trixie cried. She was in one of her frumpy wool skirts, but it was all the way up to her knees—absolutely risqué, all things considered—and her frizzy hair was pulled back into a braid and pinned with a few bobby pins.

 

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Willam said.

 

“Hi, Trixie. Hi, Katherine!” Dusty was waving cheerfully.

 

Trixie recalled that Willam had caught her and Katya copping a few feels the last time they were together, and quickly remembered her hospitality.

 

“Hey, Willam. Sorry, I just—why the _fuck_ is Dusty here?” she hissed, leaning off of her stool and swaying slightly. Willam huffed and tugged Dusty over to the bar, sitting down on Trixie’s left since Katya was occupying the space to her right. She was still stiff as a board, and Trixie sneaked her hand over to Katya’s thigh to pat it reassuringly.

 

“Well fuck, Trix, I dunno!” Willam brayed. “We wanted to enjoy the beautiful weather and then decided to say hi to our favorite swamp-witch bartender. Jesus! Did lovergirl over here take the phrase ‘Fuck your brains out’ too litera—“

 

Trixie swiftly punched Willam in the arm. “That’s _enough,_ Willam, I get it!” She turned to give Katya a _I’m so sorry, she’s nasty if you don’t keep her in check_ look, but Katya was nursing her soda and looking intently at the _WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE_ sign on the wall.

 

Dusty looked mildly shocked, blinking a little. When she noticed Trixie’s gaze had returned to her, she too began gazing with intense concentration at the selection of alcohol.

 

The concentration was not needed, because Willam promptly ordered for her. “Hey, Jinx!” she called. “An old fashioned and a martini, if you please.”

 

Jinx scowled. “I really oughta not serve you, missy. Call your parents is what I should do, mm-hmph!”

 

“Would you?” Willam said. “Lovely! Haven’t had a drink with the folks in ages, no ma’am. Not since they retired in Vegas, those old cows.”

 

Jinx grumbled about respecting your elders before turning away to fix the drinks. Trixie leaned forward on the bar and felt her arms thud heavily on the wood.  

 

“Dusty, are you sure you wanna? Don’t you remember what happened at Pearl’s?” she whispered gently. “You don’t have to—it’s risky, you got so sick…”

 

“I’ll be okay, Trixie!” Dusty squeaked, southern drawl still as pronounced as Trixie remembered it. “I ain’t gonna overdo it this time. In fact, I’m glad you’re here! You won’t let me get wasted, will you?”

 

 _Wasted? Since when was that part of her vocabulary?_ Trixie smiled and felt like her jaw was creaking. “No. No, Dusty, of course not.” _You might not be getting wasted today, but boy, I am_.

 

Dusty beamed at her and nodded gratefully. “God bless you, Trixie. Sincerely.”

 

_(jesus mary and joseph)_

 

Trixie turned to Katya, who was finally looking at her, but Trixie still couldn’t read her face. She coiled herself around Katya’s arm and rested her chin on Katya’s shoulder, squeezing her bicep and mewling, “More shots, please? Vodka.”

 

Katya huffed into her glass and set it down. “And I guess you think I’m paying for all these drinks, don’t you?” she asked. Trixie nodded and jutted out her lower lip.

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” she whispered, and Katya cocked her eyebrow with interest. “Yuh-huh, I will, I swear. A pay raise, if that’s what you want.”

 

Katya barked a laugh, and Trixie continued. “Or some of that hot cocoa you were talking about earlier! C’mon, just do your gal a favor and get her some drinks. That’s chivalry. Don’t you want to be chivalrous?”

 

Katya giggled and took another gulp from her drink, Trixie watching her throat as she swallowed.

 

“You’re a little dense, Trixie, but how I love you so,” was all Katya said, and before Trixie could reply, “Ma’am? Four shots of vodka, once you’re able.”

 

The four were sucked down greedily, with just enough time in between so that Trixie wouldn’t suddenly vomit. She was starting to feel better—in fact, she was starting to feel _groovy._ She was more talkative, turning to Willam and looking at her brightly, cheeks flushing.

 

“How have you been, girl? Whew, it’s been—“

 

“Weeks,” Willam said, rather shrewdly, sipping her second martini. “I don’t know if I feel so safe in here with you! Last time we almost got our heads blown off!” Willam laughed that stupid _Haw_ -ing laugh, and laughter bubbled out of Trixie, too, but it was partly in terror.

 

_(six shots into Eureka’s shop that day holy shit three for you and three for me!)_

 

Thankfully, Willam changed the subject. “Couldn’t believe I saw you at Monet’s boutique, holy shit! I was gonna say, ‘Don’t let that bitch near me with scissors. Or makeup, for that matter!’”

 

Trixie turned to Katya, who was busy talking to Dusty-Ray _(When did she switch seats?)._ “Katya? What time is it?”

 

Katya furrowed her eyebrows and looked down at her wristwatch. “Why, three o’clock.”

 

Trixie started to giggle, spinning back around in her seat. “Ooops!”

 

Willam snorted and looked at Trixie quizzically, and Trixie laughed harder, covering her mouth with her hands. “Jinx! Jinx, another two, if you please?”

“What… What’s so funny?” Willam asked a little hesitantly.

 

“I have— _ha!_ —I’m supposed to be at work!” Willam’s mouth dropped open, and Trixie repeated, “Oops!”

 

Willam giggled along, but she was fiddling with her bracelets and looking at the shots on the bar with worry that Trixie didn’t notice.

 

“Oh,” Willam said. “Playing hookie, huh? Well, I support that!” Trixie beamed with pride. “... Normally, anyway. But I think that job is… good! Important. I wouldn’t skimp out on one of my customers, you know? Unless they were a huge creep. And Monet isn’t. Did you tell her you’d be gone today? I don’t mind a little white lie—“

 

“Nope!”

 

Willam’s face fell further, and Trixie finally _did_ notice. Her lips curled back in an angry sneer. “Hey, since when did you get a stick up your ass?!”

 

“I don’t _want_ to have a stick up my ass _,”_ Willam retaliated, now taking Trixie’s hands in her own as the new shots were placed in front of her. “But unless you want trouble…”

 

 _“Trouble!”_ Trixie shrieked, causing Willam to hush her frantically. “Oh, boy, _trouble?!_ I know trouble! Missing a day of work ain’t trouble, don’t be a _pussy!”_ She wrung her hands free of Willam’s and grabbed the small glass, chilled and smelling more like cleaner under the sink than anything edible, and downed it. Again, she squawked, _“Trouble! Ha!”_ before swiveling around in her chair, effectively cutting Willam off.

 

“So you’re Catholic?”

 

“Oh, yes!”

 

“Hey, me too!” Katya cried, laughing heartily. “I haven’t… Well, I don’t go to church so much anymore.”

 

“Me either, Miss,” Dusty agreed solemnly. “My Mama and Daddy don’t like a single church around here. We worship at home.”

 

“That’s nice,” Katya said, leaning back. She was staring off into nothing, fingers drumming calmly and with rhythm on the bar. “I still say my _Hail-Mary_ s and all, and I’ve got a pocket bible, and—hey, look!” She took out her pistol gently from its holster, and Trixie felt her stomach lurch for the first time of many that night.

 

Katya showed the clear grip with the most important mother of all time locked safely inside, her hands resting in front of her chest with a heart encompassed by them. A tear slid down her unusually calm and maternal face.

 

“See? She protects me.” Dusty was nodding with awe, her thin fingers tracing the pistol’s grip.

 

 _Put it away!_ Trixie wanted to scream. _They’ll find you they’ll know that’s the gun you used they’ll KNOW FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!_

 

Trixie was pale and stiff, and then Katya eventually, in what felt like slow motion, slid the gun back into its holster at her hip and began talking to Dusty about Catholic school mishaps. Trixie finally breathed.

 

—

 

Trixie had gotten far drunker than she meant to, and far faster than she expected to. By five, she was swivelling and swaying in her seat, murmuring along to songs that weren’t playing and hanging off of Katya’s arm.

 

“Dust-ee?” she called. “You’re not wasted yet, are you?”

 

“No, Trixie,” Dusty said. “I’m only on my second one.”

 

“Goood!” Trixie called back, and snorted into Katya’s shoulder. Katya had cut her off an hour ago, but Trixie didn’t seem to be sobering up, and Katya was looking at Willam nervously.

 

“We should be getting home, Trixie,” Katya mumbled. “And you’re going right to bed.”

 

“No!” Trixie said. “That’s no fun!”

 

“Trixie, it’s _dark,”_ Katya continued, with increasing urgency. “Your parents…”

 

“Screw ‘em!”

 

“They’re wondering where _both_ of us are! Now, I’m going to tell them we just went to see a movie in Mirefield—“

 

“We didn’t!”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Katya hissed. “You’re gonna tell a little lie. Can you do that? We saw Bambi.”

 

“Bambi,” Trixie said contemplatively, then hummed and repeated it with more assurance. “Bambi.”

 

“Yes, Bambi,” Katya whispered, gently ushering Trixie to her feet, one arm around her back and the other holding Trixie’s arm around her neck. “Come on, now.”

 

“Bye, Willam!” Trixie shouted. “Bye, Dusty!”

 

Dusty and Willam waved, then looked at eachother anxiously, somehow knowing of the trouble to come.

 

Katya sighed deeply as she keyed the ignition of the truck. Trixie’s eyes traveled to her own house, and lights on inside seemed incredibly bright. She leaned forward a little to try seeing inside, but suddenly her head felt about the weight of a bowling ball, and she simply slumped forward pathetically. “Bright,” she mumbled, and Katya groaned.

 

After an eternity, Katya got out of the truck. Trixie was still slumped forward, but the truck was bobbing and swaying around her. She felt Katya’s strong hands guide her out of the truck, letting her lean on her, despite Trixie being inches taller and many pounds heavier.

 

“Bambi, Bambi, fuckin’ Bam-beee!” Trixie slurred, half stumbling through the front door. She finally brought her slumped head up, with a great deal of effort, and instantly squinted against the light. Her head was beginning to pound.

 

Mike and Martha were sitting in their respective reclining chairs. Mike was reading a magazine that Trixie could not begin to read (the letters were swimming off the page), but Martha was sat stock-straight, her hands clasped in her lap. She had her jaw locked, and Trixie thought with a giggle she looked like an Indian chief.

 

“Hi!” She tried to stand up straighter, but instead she nearly fell backwards. Katya’s hand caught her, but her arm was beginning to shake.

 

 _“You had Ruth worried SICK!”_ Martha bellowed, and suddenly Trixie didn’t think it was as funny. She looked to her left, and saw that Ruth was standing in the hallway with Margaret, who was holding her close and wiping her tear-stained face.

 

“She said you were running _away!_ I almost—I was just going to call the police! And not to mention I got a call from that Monet lady, she said you didn’t show up for work! Why on earth would you do that? What could be so important? You are supposed to be _responsible,_ Trixie!”

 

“We saw Bambi,” Trixie said matter-of-factly, but spit was running absently down her chin. “Why would I— _OH!_ Oh, ha _HA!_ You want me to get married, that’s what Ruth told me! Here comes the bride, _dah dah duh dah…”_

 

“What?”

 

“She told me,” Trixie said slowly, pointing at her confused mother. “That _youu_ and _Miike_ are trying to get me out of here, that you want me to get married and get on out. I thought that was really funny, cause I don’t need to get married to leave! So I went to see Bambi with Katya and I got— _heh!—_ “ She broke off into giggles.

 

“What on earth is _wrong_ with you? You’re—“ Martha’s face went stony again. Her lip was wobbling, and her hands in her lap were trembling. Mike leaned over to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she shied away.

 

“Take her upstairs.” Martha hissed. Katya began to slowly shuffle Trixie’s dead weight along, but Martha suddenly roared, “Not _YOU!”_

 

Katya recoiled so quickly she almost dropped Trixie like a sack of grain, but now she was holding on tight, both arms wrapped around her waist.

 

“Ow, Katya,” Trixie groaned. “Too tight—“

 

Her stepfather grabbed her by the arm and yanked her away from Katya in one quick swipe, and Trixie thought she heard Katya gasp. Her knees buckled beneath her, and Mike cursed before grabbing her under the arm and swinging her around. She yelled and the pain of her headache went from bad to excruciating.

 

“I—I—“

 

“Stand _up,_ Beatrice, for Christ’s sake—“

 

“I’m gonna vuh-vuh-vomit!” Trixie stumbled away from her father and into the kitchen before promptly sicking up everything in her stomach into the sink. The pain behind her eyes was nearly blinding.

 

“Trixie!” Katya said, and there were heavy footfalls.

 

 _“If you want even a chance at keeping your job you stay right here!”_ The footsteps stopped.

 

Trixie looked down at her thick vomit, smelled its liquor, and woozily said, “Oh, Cherry…” And then Mike promptly scooped her into his arms and started to carry her upstairs.

 

But even in her room, with the door closed and her mind clouded by her drunken stupor, Trixie couldn’t escape the wrath that Katya was being bombarded with downstairs.

 

“Who do you think you _are?!”_

 

“Ma’am, I just—“

 

“Taking _my_ daughter to… to _BARS!_ Don’t you know the rules in my house?”

 

“Of course—“

 

“ _No. Alcohol._ What part of that didn’t you understand? Why would you take a _child_ to a filthy place like that?! Don’t you know how hurt she could get? Someone could take her and… and do _God_ knows what!”

 

“Ma’am, I would never let that happen.”

 

_“LIKE HELL YOU WOULDN’T!”_

 

Then, Margaret’s voice came shrilly. “Mama, stop it! Katherine wouldn’t, you know she wouldn’t!”

 

“Didn’t I tell you to go upstairs?!”

 

Michael joined in. “You told _Ruth_ to go upstairs.”

 

“Well, you two go upstairs, too!”

 

“But Mom—“

 

_“But nothing!”_

 

Trixie heard—felt, rather—her siblings tramping loudly upstairs. But instead of going to their own rooms, they walked right past them and opened up Trixie’s door instead. Trixie blinked against the light of the crack in the door, groaning, before they shut it. Both of them came and sat on her bed—incredibly, both of them had been crying.

 

“Trixie,” Margaret whispered. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Trixie mumbled. “Drunk.”

 

“Jesus,” Michael breathed, and rubbed his pale face.

 

“Why would you _do_ that?” Margaret whined, taking Trixie’s hand. “You _know_ Mama hates that stuff. And now… now she’s mad at Katherine. Trixie, she might _fire_ her!”

 

“And then you’ll get your piece, too,” Michael added grimly. “Remember when I had a beer that one time? I was grounded for a month, and Dad beat me to hell and back.” He was staring ahead like a soldier recounting his stay in ‘Nam. “And that was over one beer.”

 

“Are you guys trying to make me feel like shit?” Trixie spat, rubbing her head. “I know all of this stuff already! I’ve got… Oh, man. Oh, _man.”_

 

“What?” Margaret pleaded.

 

“Nothing,” Trixie said. “This is just… this is probably the least of my worries.”

 

“How could you _say_ that?!”

 

“Oh, Margaret,” Trixie murmured, sighing deeply.

 

“Well, Katherine, why do you have your _pistol,_ then?!” Martha was yelling. “If you’re so sure you would never—“

 

“Ma’am, ever since the break in scare here I’ve just been keeping it close in case,” Katya explained gently. “For self defense, which includes protecting your family.”

 

“Honey,” Mike said. “She’s right. That’s probably the best way to keep Beatrice safe.”

 

“Oh, so now _you’re_ defending her, too?!”

 

“Oh, brother,” Margaret said. “She’s crazy.”

 

“I tried to persuade her out of drinking,” Katya said. “I really did, ma’am. But I knew she was going to go do it alone if I didn’t take her, and that would have been _far_ more dangerous. I knew that if I was with her, I’d bring her home safe. She wouldn’t get snatched, or roll her truck into a ditch and get hurt—or worse. And she didn’t. I’m sorry, Mrs. Firkus, I truly am. But I had _her_ safety in mind.”

 

Silence. For at least thirty seconds, there wasn’t a single sound, only Margaret sniffling and Michael gnawing at his fingernails.

 

“Go to your quarters,” Martha said finally. “I’ll sleep this over. But I’m telling you one thing, Missy, you better get down and pray that you still have a _job_ by the time you wake up, or ever see my daughter again.”

 

Trixie hoped that Katya would falter, maybe even cry and plead at this prospect, but she sounded as calm as ever. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry again. Have a good night.” The front door opened and closed without another word. All three children sighed.

 

“I’m gonna go to bed,” Michael said. Trixie hummed in response, closing her own eyes. The headache was starting again. When she reopened them, Michael was gone, but Margaret was still sitting placidly at the edge of her bed.

 

“Go to bed, Margaret,” Trixie said. “I want to sleep.”

 

“Trissy, could I…?” she faltered, looking embarrassed, and Trixie furrowed her eyebrows. “Could I sleep in your bed tonight?”

 

Trixie looked puzzled, and then barked a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

 

“Just tonight! I don’t… feel good. I’m scared. I didn’t know about a break in, not… _here.”_

 

Trixie sighed and tossed her covers back, thankful that she had upgraded to a queen sized bed a year ago, and let Margaret crawl underneath the covers before turning away.

 

“Thanks,” Margaret said. “Hey, did you know anything about—“

 

“Good _night,_ Margaret.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i’ll hopefully figure out a schedule for posting this soon! 
> 
> follow me on tumblr!: trixiesgum.tumblr.com
> 
> pinterest board for this fic: https://pin.it/s7cuzfjnfuibqt
> 
> spotify playlist for this fic: https://open.spotify.com/user/autumngilbert13/playlist/6aOD0BtW922ODrqCwGDGzU?si=m-Qtt0sWR_KPPubTZ3Lb-Q


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